Appreciations 
eviews  of 


BRUNELLESCHI 

A  POEM 

BY 

JOHN  GALEN  HOWARD 


PROFESSOR  GEORGE  R.  NOYES 

Professor  of  Slavic  Languages,  University  of  California 

YOUR  work  has  appealed  to  me  more  than  ever  on  this 
third  hearing.  Its  greatest  charm  I  find  in  its  dramatic 
power.  You  give  a  portrait  of  a  really  great  personality,  of  an 
architect  absorbed  in  his  work,  and  of  a  devout,  highly  trained, 
fine-natured  man,  striving  with  all  his  might  to  make  his  city 
a  more  lovely  place  by  the  talent  that  has  been  given  him. 
Brunelleschi's  occasional  bitterness  and  rancor  are  only  the 
shaded  (hardly  even  shady)  side  of  a  noble  character. Then 
you  weave  in  some  stirring  glimpses  of  the  bustling  life  of 
the  city  where  Brunclleschi  lived.  Your  poem  is  fall  of  pas 
sages  of  beautiful  description  and  inspiring  eloquence. 

FLORENCE  NOYES 

I  HAVE  just  finished  reading  your  wonderful  poem.  .  .  . 
I  am  truly  grateful  to  you  For  making  this  man  live  for 
me.  He  was  only  a  name  before,  but  now  he  stands  out  in 
my  mind  as  a  vivid,  interesting,  and  very  human  personal 
ity—a  really  convincing  picture  of  a  man  who  was  truly  great. 
I  think  this  side  of  your  poem  means  the  most  to  me  —  the 
dramatic  side,  so  to  speak  —  and  yet  there  are  so  many  splen 
did  descriptions  all  the  way  through  it,  and  so  many  fine  bits 
of  psychological  analysis,  and  of  very  true  philosophy. 

AMERICAN  ARCHITECT 

THOSE  architects  and  their  clients  who  in  the  lull  of 
daily  activity  allow  themselves  the  luxury  of  thinking 
about  the  less  tangible  phases  of  architecture  will  be  interest 
ed  in  this  work,which  sympathetically  interprets  the  "  Father 
of  the  Renaissance."  The  purpose  of  the  poem,  written  largely 
in  Florence,  the  scene  of  Brunelleschi's  career,  is  in  some 
measure  to  portray  the  man  and  at  the  same  time  to  make 
the  architect,  as  a  type,  more  readily  intelligible  to  the  world. 
The  metrical  expression  has  all  that  forceful  dignity  and  sus 
tained  vigor  of  imagination  which  proclaims  it  the  first  true 
epic  of  the  "mother  art." 


EDWARD  ROBESON  TAYLOR 

Translator  of  "Sonnets  of  Heredia" 

I  CANNOT  forbear  telling  you  how  much  I  enjoyed  the 
reading  of  your  "Brunelleschi."  It  is  the  work  of  a  man 
that  felt  every  line  of  the  poem  and  that  makes  you  feel  it. 
I  know  of  no  greater  triumph  in  poetry  than  this.  The  first 
part,  with  its  Rome,  I  enjoyed  very  much  —  more,  perhaps, 
than  the  other  two,  but  the  whole  of  it  most  admirably  de 
picts  the  aspiring  spirit.  You  have  put  an  immense  deal  of 
labour  in  this,  but  it  was  worth  it,  and  the  work  will  last, 
though  it  will  have  few  readers  — but  all  true  poetry  has  that. 
As  matter  of  typographic  art  the  book  cannot  be  surpassed. 

WALTER  MORRIS  HART 

AUOC.  Prof,  of  English  Philology,  University  of  California 

YOUR  "Brunelleschi "reached  me  last  night.  I  hasten  to 
send  you  my  congratulations,  most  hearty  and  sincere, 
and  to  thank  you  for  a  perfect  Sunday  afternoon.  Chill  wind 
and  rain  have  vanished,  giving  place  to  blue  Italian  skies,  and 
I  have  seemed  to  be  looking,  once  more,  over  the  red-tiled 
roofs  of  Florence,  from  Giotto's  tower,  from  the  Duomo,  or 
from  San  Miniato,  thanks  to  the  compelling  magic  of  your 
lines.  And  still  more  vivid  than  its  Florence,  which  I  have 
seen,  is  the  splendid  and  rugged  personality,  of  whom  I  have 
known  far  too  little.  I  seem  to  have  been  face  to  face  with  a 
great  Presence,  with  him  re-living  the  conflicts  with  other 
powerful  personalities,  —  Ghiberti's  or  Cosimo's,  —  or  with  the 
stupid  Florentines  who  stood  between  him  and  the  realization 
of  his  great  purpose:  and  understanding  that  purpose  as  the 
guide  and  unifying  principle  of  his  life. 

These  are  first  impressions.  I  look  forward  to  re-readings. 
I  shall  turn  back  most  often,  I  imagine,  to  the  opening  pic 
ture,  to  the  descriptions  of  the  Pantheon,  of  Florence  from 
the  Duomo,  and  the  changing  lights  and  shifting  moods  of 
the  third  part.  And  more  than  once  I  shall  have  occasion  to 
quote  your  admirable  phrasing  of  the  contrast,  in  their  re 
spective  relations  to  the  past,  of  sculptor  and  architect.  Does 


not  the  poet  combine  the  two?  In  your  own  poem  Shakes 
peare  and  Milton  and  Browning  are  voiceless  partners  of  the 
compact, —  are  they  not?  — while  character  is  your  art,  and 
you  grope  in  the  crannied  rocks  of  Brunelleschi's  selfhood, 

Whence  thou  derivest  freedom  to  essay 
Outward  in  realms  thine  only. 

In  these  passages  you  seem  to  let  one  into  the  secret  of  your 
purpose:  making  use,  as  your  medium,  of  the  great  traditions 
of  English  verse,  to  revivify  a  large  and  significant  person 
ality.  What  you  set  out  to  do,  that,  it  seems  to  me,  you  ac 
complish. 

HERBERT  CROLY 

Editor  of"  The  New  Republic" 

YOUR  poem  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  upon 
my  somewhat  dulled  poetic  sensibilities.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  sincere  and  thorough  explorations  of  a  state  of  mind, 
both  typical  and  individual,  which  I  have  ever  read.  The 
mise-en-sceneis  concrete  and  vivid,  the  man  himself  rings  true, 
while  at  the  same  time  no  one  who  has  reflected  upon  the 
business  of  being  an  architect  can  fail  to  be  stirred  by  the 
power  and  substance  and  beauty  of  the  formative  idea. 

THE  PROVIDENCE  JOURNAL 

EAUTIFUL  in  make-up,  so  far  as  the  appearance  of 
the  volume  is  concerned,  and  thoughtful  in  content.  .  .  . 
The  author,  .  .  .  who  is  himself  an  architect,  has  a  keen  ap 
preciation  not  only  of  the  great  Florentine's  life-work,  but 
of  the  spirit  which  dominated  his  personality.  The  volume 
is  an  unusually  handsome  one. 

EMANU-EL,  San  Francisco 

THEbook,of  about  one  hundred  pages, is  one  of  the  finest 
productions  of  the  publisher's  art.  Brunelleschi  was  the 
famous  architect  of  Florence,  who  was  named  "  Father  of  the 
Renaissance,"  and  Mr.  Howard  has  succeeded  admirably  in 
presenting  a  study  in  metrical  form  of  this  remarkable  man. 


B 


JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 

in  "  The  Minneapolis  Journal" 

IT  IS  evidently  the  work  of  a  man  of  culture,  wide  experi 
ence  of  life,  and  profound  understanding  of  art.  The  theme 
is  admirably  suited  to  poetry,  and  one  wonders  that  Brown 
ing  did  not  see  fit  to  utilize  it.  ...  Occasionally  an  exquisite 
passage  forces  one  to  grant  that  even  Browning  could  not 
have  surpassed  the  finer  moments  of  Mr.  Howard's  poem. . .  . 
the  high  tone  of  the  work  is  well  sustained,  and  such  lines 
as  the  following,  even  when  read  independently  of  their  set 
tings,  go  far  toward  compensating  for  the  occasional  blunders : 

"/  marked  the  wincing  eye-lash  and  the  flinch 
Of  the  touched  raw." 

"All  up  the  dizzy  wonder  to  the  roof." 

"Tou  know,  my  friends,  we  be  but  instruments, 
No  more,  we  artists;  blades  whose  tempered  steel 
Life  sharpens  to  swift  practise, grinding  down 
'Their  native  roughness  to  such  razor  edge, 
As  slips  twixt  life  and  death,  twixt  false  and  true. 
God!  And  when  hearts  are  rubbed  thus,  who  shall  say 
'The  anguish  of  that  sharping!" 

One  line  in  this  poem  seems  to  us  not  only  to  be  quite 
perfect,  but  to  express  the  true  gospel  of  craftsmanship  in  art, 
with  the  speed  and  finality  that  always  characterize  the  great 
lines  of  a  master. 

"'The  long,  inveterate  travail  of  the  soul" 

THE  ARGONAUT,  San  Francisco 

AN  ARCHITECT,  a  man  trained  (as  he  himself  de 
scribes  it)  in  an  art  that  uses  "symbols  of  no  sound," 
has  tried  his  hand  at  poetry,  an  art  in  which  the  sound  of  the 
symbol  is  inseparable  from  the  art's  perfection. The  theme  of 
his  poem  is  admirably  chosen  and  would  have  delighted 
Browning.  It  is  a  soliloquy  in  blank  verse  by  the  great  Flor- 


entine  architect  of  the  fifteenth  century,  whose  life  work  had 
been  to  arch  the  unfinished  cathedral  with  his  majestic  dome. 
Brunelleschi  is  imagined  speaking  near  the  end  of  life  and 
filled  with  retrospections  of  the  dreams  he  had  realized,  the 
rivalries  he  had  overcome,  the  art  and  the  artists  that  had 
given  him  courage.  The  still  unfinished  dome  is  viewed  at 
one  time  from  his  chamber  window,  at  another  from  a  hillside 
near  Florence,  and  in  the  interval  its  interior  is  climbed  on  the 
arm  of  a  friend.  An  excellent  constructive  skill  is  shown  by 
the  author  in  the  arrangement  of  the  poem,  and  he  is  keenly 
sensible  of  the  rich  associations  of  mediaeval  Florence,  as 
well  as  to  the  influence  of  twenty  years  of  residence  in  Rome, 
on  the  slow  ripening  of  Brunelleschi's  art. 

His  Pantheon  (lines  555-581)  and  his  Forum  (lines  461- 
493)  have  some  of  the  light  and  color  of  imagination's  camera; 
but  it  is  rather  in  passages  like  Brunelleschi's  self-analysis 
(lines  186-205)  and  the  final  apostrophe  to  the  creations  of 
his  brain  (lines  1693-1713)  that  the  author  moves  with  the 
freedom  of  unconscious  skill.  One  brief  passage  describes  the 
youthful  Donatello.  Clarity  of  vision  and  perfect  adequacy 
of  words  are  here  united,  and  I  will  close  these  impressions 
by  quoting  its  memorable  beauty: 

"A  downy  velvet  barely  duskt  his  lip; 
His  hand  jit  was  already  man's;  his  mind 
A  forthright  god' sy  creative;  and  his  soul 
Flower-sweetly  childlike,  as  it  still  is  so" 

THE  NATION,  New  York 

THE  "Brunelleschi"  of  John  Galen  Howard  is  an  artis 
tic  monologue  adapted  to  three  successive  views  or  out 
looks  upon  Florence,  from  the  artist's  chamber  at  dawn,  from 
the  hollow  of  the  Duomo  at  noon,  and  from  San  Miniato  at 
night.  There  is  a  speed  and  sonority  in  the  lines.  .  .  .  The 
main  excellence,  however,  is  a  certain  heat  and  vigour  in  the 
conception  of  "Brunelleschi,"  . . .  and  the  presence  of  sparkles 
of  animation  even  in  the  artist's  lightly  sketched  compatri 
ots.  Mr.  Howard  .  .  .  has  put  beyond  question  his  right  to 
try  again. 


HENRY  L.  BULLEN 

Librarian  Typographic  Library  and  Museum,  Jersey  City 

THE  book  is  a  beautiful  example  of  chaste  typography, 
with  all  the  details  of  proportion,  margins,  color,  and 
workmanship  perfectly  arranged.  Simplicity  in  this  book  is 
the  fruit  of  much  study  and  much  knowledge  of  the  essen 
tials  of  fine  printing.  This  is  a  book  to  love  as  a  piece  of 
printing,  and  to  love  more  with  acquaintance.  San  Francisco 
may  well  be  proud  of  possessing  a  press  which  can  produce 
typographic  masterpieces,  and  all  the  work  of  which  is  never 
less  than  admirable. 

GEORGE  HAMLIN  FITCH 

in  "San  Francisco  Chronicle" 

A  NOTEWORTHY  book,  because  of  its  literary  merit 
•**•  and  its  fine  dress,  is  "Brunelleschi,"  a  poem  by  John 
Galen  Howard,  the  eminent  architect  who  was  mainly  instru 
mental  in  inducing  the  University  of  California  to  adopt  a 
systematic  plan  for  building  the  campus  quadrangle.  Mr. 
Howard's  architectural  abilities  have  been  demonstrated.  It 
remained  for  this  poem  to  show  that  he  has  many  of  the 
qualities  of  a  genuine  poet. 

RUFUS  STEELE 

T  CONGRATULATE  both  you  and  Brunelleschi.  He  is 
•••  doubly  blessed  in  being  understood  by  one  who  has  the 
rare  ability  to  interpret  him  so  many  may  understand.  Some 
of  your  lines  are  as  big  as  mountains;  some  of  your  concep 
tions  as  deep  as  the  sea.  I  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  I  am 
deriving  and  which  I  expect  to  derive  as  often  as  the  book 
is  in  my  hands.  And  the  finest  thrill  comes  from  finding  a 
man  with  such  a  magnificent  conception  of  the  trade  to  whose 
bench  he  himself  is  bound! 


The  book  was  made  by  Taylor,  Nash  &  Taylor 

of  San  Francisco,  and  480  numbered  copies  only  -were  printed 

from  type  and  the  type  distributed.  There  are 

but  a  few  copies  left  for  sale 

PRICE, 


.00 


JOHN  HOWELL 

Importer  &  Publisher 

No.  107  GRANT  AVENUE,  SAN  FRANCISCO 
CALIFORNIA 


BRUNELLESCHI 


BRUNELLESCHI 

A  POEM 


BY 

JOHN   GALEN   HOWARD 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

JOHN  HOWELL 
19*3 


COPYRIGHT,   1913 
BY  JOHN   GALEN   HOWARD 


TO 

C.  D. 


THIS   IMAGINED   FACE 


Within  the  sixty-nine  years  of  Filippo  Erunelleschi  's  life,  Italy 
passed  from  the  Dark  Ages  to  the  Renaissance.  More  than  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  before  the  great  architect  was  born  his  most 
famous  work,  the  cathedral  dome  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  had 
been  foreshadowed  by  Arnolfo  di  Cambio,  the  original  architect 
of  the  building;  but  though  the  cathedral  had,  by  Erunelleschi '  s 
time,  been  mostly  finished  otherwise,  the  vast  ottagonal  space  over 
the  crossing  still  remained  without  a  roof,  for  lack  of  an  architect 
with  the  skill  and  courage  to  formulate  a  plan  and  carry  out  the 
task.  'These  and  other  necessary  qualities  Erunelleschi  alone  pos 
sessed.  Actual  construction  was  begun  by  him  twenty-six  years 
before  his  death,  but  he  was  fated  to  see  completed  only  the  main 
portion  of  the  dome.  The  crowning  lantern  was  finished  in  accord 
ance  with  his  design,  years  after  he  was  gone,  by  Michelozzo,  once 
(and  always)  his  pupil,  later  his  rival,  and  finally  his  successor. 

The  aftion  of  the  piece  occupies  one  fine  April  day,  a  brief 
interval  of  vigor  in  Erunelleschi1  s  last  illness.  The  aged  archi- 
tecJ,  realizing  that  death  is  at  hand,  has  determined  upon  a  last 
visit  to  the  dome.  The  first  scene  is  at  dawn,  in  Erunelleschi 's 
room  at  the  top  of  his  house  in  Florence,  near  the  cathedral,  which 
is  to  be  seen  through  the  open  window.  The  second  scene  is  at  mid 
day  within  and  on  the  dome.  The  third  scene  is  at  sunset  on  the 
slopes  of  San  Miniato  overlooking  Florence,  with  the  dome  in  the 
middle  distance.  Throughout  the  piece  Erunelleschi  alone  speaks. 


To  climb  the  summit  of  the  centuries 
And  orb  their  life  in  skiey  stone  ! 


BRUNELLESCHI 

PART  I  — MORNING 

TIME  :  April,  1446.   Daybreak. 

SCENE  :  An  upper  room,  Florence.  'The  Dome  is  seen  beyond. 

PERSONS  :  Filippo  Brunelleschi  and  his  adopted 

son,  Andrea.  Brunelleschi  speaks. 


A- 


T  LAST!  —  Now  Dawn  hath  like  a  serpent  slipt 
Her  shroud  of  murk  oblivion  and  glides 
Fresh-panoplied  with  jewels  forth  from  night ! 
Awake,  Andrea !   For  today  once  more, 
5  After  these  bedrid  asons,  would  my  feet 
The  sky-bound  platform  of  my  Dome  achieved 
Enjoy.    Upon  this  day  will  I  go  up 
Into  that  mountain  for  a  last  farewell! 

Withdraw  the  hangings,  that  I  well  may  see 
10  From  this  dim  corner,  framed  with  chambered  gloom's 
Delicious  flood  of  ambient  morning  air, 
My  blossom-bubble  of  frail  fabric  sheen, 
Atingle  with  the  day,  still  sweet  with  dew 
And  rosy  thro'  dawn's  pearl.    More  fully  draw 

I 


BRUNELLESCHI 

15  The  grapy  damask  from  the  pouring  rays 
Until  its  glinting  dragons  drown  in  dregs 
And  these  used  eyes,  antiqued  with  Roman  wont, 
Joy  in  divine  proportion. 

So!    Such  forms 

20  As  I  have  builded  should  be  ever  seen  — 
Unless  it  be  beneath  the  frameless  vault 
Of  circumambient  ensconcing  skies  — 
As  now  thro'  arched  oblongs  exquisite. 

Perfection!  'Tis  a  beauty  such,  methinks, 

25  As  none  but  he  who  made  can  utterly 
Delight  in !    Ha !  Arnolfo,  how  would  you 
Lift  eyes  in  prayer  could  you  but  see  this  heaven 
I  've  crowned  your  space  withal !   Could  you  forgive, 
In  jealousy  for  thine  own  striving  hand, 

30  My  bettering  your  best  ?    As  well  as  I 

Forgive  your  crouching  Atlas  that  his  brawn 
Reeks  not  of  faclure  mine,  each  toiling  stone 
Bone  of  my  bone,  and  toil  of  my  long  toil, 
To  hold  my  heavens  up  to  Majesty! 

35  Vain  for  the  God-in-us  to  crave  the  all  — 
Not  to  derive,  or  flash  like  glinting  beads 
On  whirlwind  skirts  of  cataracts  of  power, 
But  in  imperious  oneness  to  ordain 

2 


MORNING 

And  to  suffice !    Vain,  for  at  very  best 

40  We  wilful  makers  are  but  shreds  and  waifs 
Of  urgent  godhead,  and  our  mightiest  throes 
Of  will  creative  are  but  gentlest  breaths 
Out  of  almighty  nostrils.    Yet  meseems  — 
And  thus  I  justify  my  headiness — 

45  God  maketh  best  by  human  instruments, 
Thro'  secondary  acT:  of  primal  power. 
Nor  seas  nor  mounts  nor  all  His  wheeling  hosts 
Outweigh  perchance  the  breath  from  poets'  lips, 
Or  radiance  elusive  of  the  light 

50  That  quicks  dead  walls  touched  deathless  by  the  brush ; 
How,  then,  with  domes  that  span  with  winged  stones, 
Wrought  to  live  purpose  by  mere  acl:  of  mind, 
Void  space  above  Christ's  holy  shrine  ?   Naught  greater 
God  hath  created  than  my  blushing  Dome, 

55  The  virgin  breast  of  Florence!    There  hath  art 
Touched  the  high  term  of  beauty.  'Tis  of  God, 
Solely  of  God.    He  thro'  my  tangled  brain 
Conceived  and  did;  nor  thro'  my  brain  alone 
But  thro'  the  countless  minds  whose  heritage 

60  Mine  hath  but  garnered,  and  their  teeming  house 
Set  now  at  last  in  order.    Most  of  all 
From  him  ( high  heart )  my  fountains  take  their  rise 
Who  first  laid  down  the  pregnant  octagon, 

3 


BRUNELLESCHI 

And  visioned  it  o'erswept  and  glorious 
65  With  winged  earth-stuff  rapturously  enskied. 

Timid  that  profile  as  it  budded  first 

Within  his  mind's  of- God-impregnate  womb? 

"Timid  and  paltry"  were  the  words  I  used 

To  hammer  home  a  truth  they  would  not  heed, 

70  Those  close  maestri,  with  their  padlockt  heads 
Nodding  and  knocking  woodenly  of  rules 
And  precedent,  and  of  the  high  respecl: 
Due  to  Arnolfo's  sacred  memory. 
But  which  is  he  who  most  respects  the  law  — 

75  He  whom  the  letter  circumscribes  and  kills, 
Or  he  within  whose  soul  law's  soul  strikes  root, 
Bursting  the  bonds  of  its  enjailing  shell 
To  amplify  forever?    Words  I  used 
In  heat  to  clench  a  white-hot  argument 

80  I  used  with  purpose  underneath  my  heat, 

With  cold  and  tempered  purpose,  for  those  words 
Those  hateful  words— applied  not  to  the  thought 
Arnolfo  sowed,  a  seed  of  the  sublime, 
But  to  the  minds  that  saw  sublimity 

85  Curtailed  and  wingless,  and  were  satisfied. 
I  spake  Arnolfo,  and  my  words  drove  home. 
I  markt  the  wincing  eyelash  and  the  flinch 

4 


MORNING 

Of  the  touched  raw ;  and  "  Florence  with  a  dome 
Timid  and  paltry!   Inconceivable 

90  And  not  to  be  endured ! "  they  each  and  all 
Trod  toe  on  heel  in  protest. 

So  my  point 

And  the  first  glory  of  the  Dome  were  won. 
For  'tis  alone  by  that  uplifting  wall 
95  The  form  voluptuous  above  gets  wings 
For  soaring  free  to  empyreal  power. 
So  is  Arnolfo's  thought  empedestaled, 
Rapt  from  closed  budhood  and  out-flowered  in  joy 
Amid  the  blue,  unhampered  unaware, 

ioo  Its  will  achieved,  its  yearning  in  repose. 
'Tis  so  forever  in  the  life  of  thought; 
Expression  goes  not  home,  knows  not  its  ends, 
If  it  be  not  detacht,  distinguisht,  throned, 
Set  high  apart  and  sacredly  enshrined. 

105  'Twas  so  our  Florentine  his  Comedy 

Put  at  awe's  distance  by  the  awsome  form 
Wherewith  he  clothed  his  vision's  universe, 
And,  by  removing,  brought  his  vision  home, 
A  universal  knock  at  each  heart's  door. 

1 10  Only  a  few  can  cluster  round  a  spring 
Hid  among  sedges  secretly  and  shy; 
But  hang  its  gauzy  gladness  o'er  the  cliff 

5 


BRUNELLESCHI 

And  each  who  looks  may  mark  it  for  his  own. 
Lift  thou  thy  thought  into  the  upper  air 
1 1 5  If  thou  wouldst  speak  beyond  the  reach  of  death ! 

So  bloomed  Arnolfo's  buddings  at  my  hands. 
Him  hail  I  grandsire;  thro'  these  clogging  veins 
Still  riot  gladsome  drops  I  owe  to  him, 
When  I  but  think  upon  him.  'Twas  a  man, 

1 20  God's  image  manned  with  God's  first  attribute  — 
The  potent  will  creative  —  that  conceived 
Yon  form  of  loveliness,  and  dared  its  plan. 
From  him  most  I  derive,  and  have  a  pride 
To  flow  from  such  a  source;  'tis  but  the  mood 

125  That  marks  me  maker  when  I  jealous  am 

Of  aught  that  seems  to  minish  mine  own  strength 
Or  to  condition  its  forth-putting.    Now, 
When  my  last  journey  I  must  soon  take  up 
( Who  knoweth  to  what  bourn  ? )  and  all  alone, 

130  As  never  yet  I  journeyed,  let  these  words, 
As  if  they  were  my  latest  breath,  sink  deep 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  beloved  son  — 
Heart  of  my  heart,  tho'  wanting  blood  of  mine  — 
More  closer  for  my  loving,  not  my  lust. 

135 1,  whom  my  Florence  placeth  up,  alone, 
At  last  after  these  fifty  years  of  fight, 

6 


MORNING 

Owe  all  I  am  to  my  progenitors, 

Not  of  the  flesh  alone — nay,  surely  — but 

To  those  now  nameless  dead  whose  godlike  stuff 

HO  Of  the  imagination  ever  fed 

And  feeds  my  inmost  being.    He  who  gave 
His  gift  in  but  a  breath  of  living  thought — 
Caught  from  the  whisper  of  a  passing  Power, 
Misunderstood  or  haply  misapplied, 

H5  But  quick — hath  given  that  without  which  I 
Had  languisht  or  gone  down.    In  reverence 
For  the  unending  sacred  stream  of  life 
Which  is  but  God,  I  pass  my  portion  on 
To  him  who  follows  after.    May  my  thought 

1 50  Be  fruitful  and  increase  in  many  minds 
Yet  to  be  born  in  lands  beyond  my  ken. 
Haply  there  shall  arise  on  crest  of  time 
Some  spirit  —  nay,  some  spirits  —  packt  with  power, 
Who,  building  on  my  thought,  shall  raise  up  piles 

1 5  5  More  mighty  than  my  mightiest,  yet  give 
To  me  the  guerdon  of  their  deeds  divine. 
So  is  my  meed  most  his  who  went  before. 

Ev'n  as  I  speak,  see  how  the  April  sun, 
Fresh  from  his  dip  in  nightly  Lethe,  springs 
1 60  Fleet-footed  from  the  hills,  his  earliest  glance 

7 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Kindling  the  snowy  topping  of  the  Dome, 
Unfinisht  yet  and  webbed  with  scantling  gold 
That,  lacelike,  masks  the  inward  loveliness. 
Now  slide  the  rays  adown  the  swelling  mound  — 

165  A  lover's  touch  that  swift  with  young  desire 
Caresses  and  compels  voluptuous  form. 
From  out  the  dusk  of  dawning,  sweet  emerge 
Chaste  raptures  of  pale  marble,  veining  soft 
The  roseleaf-luscious  languor  of  that  hill 

1 7°  All  virginal.    And  now  the  eager  light 
Hath  like  a  lover  swept  the  immaculate 
And  taken  all  ...  as  Christ,  our  light  of  lights 
And  days'  eternal  day,  would  sweep  to  Him 
The  budding  ripeness  of  His  mystic  bride. 

175  'Tis  time  I  left  this  palsied  pallet.    Now, 
And  for  the  last  time — oh!   I  feel  it  snap 
My  fragile  heart-strings  —  shall  I  mount  that  height 
Whereto  my  life  hath  been  pledged  utterly. 
No  more  with  pride  imperial  shall  I  set 

1 80  These  feet  upon  the  rung  to  the  sky's  gates, 
Nor  o'er  these  lips  may  ever  burst  again 
The  voice  of  fiat ;  but  a  suppliant, 
Kneeling  the  steps  of  Christward  penitence, 
I  will  up-crawl,  a  worm  before  the  Throne. 

8 


MORNING 

185  Even  to  rise  from  this  strait  couch  I  need 
Thy  arm,  Andrea;  and  thy  filial  word— 
'Tis  strange  how  deep  its  sound  doth  penetrate 
And  how  it  easeth  me.    When  I  am  gone 
'Tis  thou  I  would  have  make  my  monument; 

1 90 'Tis  so  perchance  thou  hast  a  chance  to  live. 
Nay,  be  not  vext;  we  be  no  flatterers, 
To  scum  salt  hearts  with  sweetness,  thou  and  I. 
What  I  to  thee,  say  thou  unto  the  world; 
What  I  of  thee,  say  thou  of  me  abroad, 

195  Nor  paint  me  beauteous;  but  as  thou  hast  seen, 
So  show  me  forth.    It  is  one  half  my  pride 
That  I  have  won,  being  but  what  I  am, 
A  pint-pot  scrub,  so  full  of  cranky  whims 
And  desperate  abridgments  that  all  maids 

200  Have  said  me  nay,  till,  in  the  lapse  of  time, 
My  heart  hath  turned  unto  the  like  of  thee, 
And  made  me  father  all  vagaries  thine. 
It  were  quaint  justice,  shouldst  thou  live  thro'  me 
In  thy  presentment,  since  thou  lack'st  my  blood 

205  Yet  call'st  me  father.    Make  my  monument ! 

And  while  thou  help'st  me  to  put  on  these  stuffs 
More  joyous  for  the  sackcloth  of  my  soul 
(Which  men  must  spy  not)  I'll  beguile  the  hour 

9 


BRUNELLESCHI 

With  memories;  for  I  have  never  told 
2 10  Even  to  thee  one  half  the  struggles  deep 

Wherethro'  I  've  waded  to  this  shore  of  years. 

Nor  shall  I  now,  nor  could  I ;  yet,  in  part, 

Since  thou  must  make  me  live  when  I  am  dead, 

'Tis  fitting  thou  shouldst  glimpse  my  battle-field 
215  Before  we  knew  ourselves  as  son  and  sire 

In  the  calm  evening  of  my  agony, 

That  smoothed  the  pathways  of  thy  morning  life. 

Thou  know'st  my  model  for  Lorenzo's  doors; 
Thou  know'st  my  model  for  yon  soaring  Dome; 

220  Betwixt  those  two  there  yawned  a  score  of  years 
Empty  of  all  achievement  visible 
But  packt  with  gnawing  hell.    I  knew  my  power, 
For  it  was  very  I  —  I  breathed  and  drank, 
Waked,  slept  and  lived  it.    In  my  deepest  soul 

225  There  was  no  cranny  but  was  crank  with  it. 
And  in  my  mind  imagination  still 
And  sleeplessly  did  live  with  gaping  space 
O'ercrowned  and  perfected.    An  instinct  'twas, 
More  not-to-be-denied  than  roused  lust — 

230  A  lust  indeed  instinctive  and  more  hot, 
More  exigent,  than  fleshly  longings  —  that 
With  a  consuming  summons  called  me  on 

10 


MORNING 

To  close  vast  spaces  in.  'Twas  born  in  me 
As  hunger  in  all  creatures,  nor  less  fierce. 

235  But  I  recall,  as  men  recall  first  love, 

The  hour  when  first  in  fire  from  out  the  blue 
The  bolt  of  conscious  will  to  live  or  die 
For  that  desire — to  make  it  good  — smote  thro' 
To  gushing  springs  of  being. 

240  But  a  lad, 

A  mean,  frail  shred  of  boyhood,  was  I  then  — 
Ten  years  or  suchlike.    All  the  town  was  mad 
With  joy  and  with  acclaim  that  Giotto's  tower, 
That  half  a  century  was  building,  was  topt  out. 

245  And  I,  with  other  urchins,  half  a  score  — 
Lorenzo  one  of  them  of  course — slipt  by 
The  jealous  wardens  and  made  holiday 
All  up  the  dizzy  wonder  to  the  roof. 
Once  there,  the  keeper  panting  in  pursuit, 

250  We  rompt  around  the  hanging  parapet 

In  shrillest  glee,  with  taunts  scarce  circumspect 

For  him  who  followed  fast;  till  finally 

He  herded  all  save  but  Lorenzo's  self 

And  me  down  thro'  the  scuttle.    We  escaped 

255  That  ignominy  by  a  sudden  dodge 

And  found  ourselves  alone  in  the  pale  blue. 


I  I 


BRUNELLESCHI 

We  both  had  kindled  with  the  kindled  town, 

And  in  our  hearts  there  throbbed  a  riot  joy 

That  Giotto's  genius  now  was  culminate 
260  Full  two  score  years  since  he  was  in  his  grave. 

The  people's  exaltation  scarce  was  less 

Than  when  not  long  ago  we  capt  the  Dome; 

And  we  small  slips  of  callow  artistry 

Were  fired  with  sense  of  genius.    Scarcely  friends 
265  Were  we,  even  as  children  —  too  unlike 

Our  natures  were  to  coalesce  in  love; 

But  we  were  friendly  till  that  tower-top  hour. 

There  our  ways  parted.    And  they  never  since 

Have  met  but  they  have  crost. 
270  From  that  great  height 

We  lookt  together  o'er  the  bristling  town, 

Sawed  with  the  holds  of  lordlings,  and  in  pride 

Each  told  upon  his  fingers  each  proud  house 

He  held  allegiance  unto.    Hardly  once 
275  My  score  agreed  with  his.    My  friends  and  his 

Might  have  inhabited  two  separate  worlds, 

So  far  apart  our  standards  and  our  kin. 

Boys  take  these  things  more  seriously  than  men, 

Even  in  Florence,  and  incipient  heat 
280  Burned  in  each  reddening  cheek,  despisal's  flag. 

It  was  when  we  had  warmed  to  boast  and  taunt, 

12 


MORNING 

Boy-fashion,  that  we  wheeled  and  o'er  the  church 
Alongside  bent  our  downward  gaze.    At  odds 
In  family  allegiance,  more  at  odds 

285  We  were,  and  came  to  fisticuffs,  thereon. 

To  me  the  yawning  chasm,  that  markt  the  dome 

Arnolfo  had  imagined,  was  a  lure, 

A  challenge,  a  delight;  to  him  a  snare, 

A  fearsome  bungle  —  worse,  disaster  sure, 

290  If  it  indeed  with  stone  must  be  o'erspanned. 
Then  sprang  my  fate  to  saddle  and  I  cried, 
"'Tis  cowardice  to  drivel  such  a  lie! 
Think  you  Arnolfo  knew  not  what  he  did 
When  he  foresaw  that  gaping  hole?    I  know 

295  It  can  be  vaulted,  and  I'll  do  it,  too ! " 

'Twas  sixty  years  ago,  well  nigh;  yet  now 
I  still  can  feel  my  cheek  grow  hot  and  cold 
With  that  unreasoned  and  divine  control 
Which  hath  sustained  me  ever,  but  first  then 

300  Made  manifest  my  business.  'Twas  Christ's  will 
That  I  should  heal  that  emptiness!    And  when, 
In  after  time,  the  years  dragged  on  and  on, 
Defeat  succeeding  failure,  and  naught  moved 
That  cumbersome  machine  the  Opera  — 

305  Or,  moved,  they  did  but  jangle  their  minds'  chains, 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Creakt  dry  old  catchless  cogs,  and  spat  out  dust- 
I  oft  have  cast  me  on  my  bended  knees 
And  sought  new  guidance;  and  as  oft  His  hand 
Have  felt  uplift  me  till  my  doubt  was  done. 

3 10  But  this  was  later  — boys  have  little  care 
But  that  their  wills  will  carry;  as  for  me, 
As  boy  I  never  doubted.    My  first  doubt 
Came  at  same  hand  as  my  first  certainty  — 
Lorenzo's— but  not  doubt  anent  the  Dome, 

3 1 5  Nor  doubt  so  much  about  myself  as  him. 
When  he  and  I  lockt  horns  over  the  bronze 
That  was  to  seal  the  doorless  baptistry, 

• 

Then  first  I  saw  him  as  a  power.    Till  then, 
All  thro'  our  prentice  days,  I  'd  thought  of  him 

320  As  but  a  plodding  potterer,  a  fond 
And  fearful  searcher-out  of  vanities 
Who  never  knew  his  mind,  and  took  the  world 
Into  his  confidence  to  fix  him  one. 
But  when  the  models  for  the  gates  were  shown, 

325  Our  two  —  Lorenzo's  and  my  own  —  stood  out 
Together,  peers  incomparable;  so 
The  town  and  all  did  say.    And  some  inclined, 
And  not  a  few,  to  mine.    But  in  my  heart 
I  knew  that  his  was  finer,  and  with  pain 

14 


MORNING 

330  I  marveled  wherefore.    How  could  such  a  mind, 
So  feeble  in  conception,  indirect, 
And  blown  about  by  every  gust  that  came, 
Produce  a  thing  so  exquisite?    It  balkt 
My  being.    And  'twas  from  that  hour  I  knew 

335  Not  force  can  work  the  marvel  but  the  long 
Inveterate  travail  of  the  soul.    I  saw 
My  Abraham  a  pattern  of  myself — 
Hot  to  the  deed,  e'en  odious.    Odious  thought, 
To  minds  like  mine,  that  they  must  clip  will's  wings 

340  To  plod  in  patience  the  long  paths  to  power, 
And  know  the  bloody  scourging  of  defeat, 
Ere  they  may  make  the  mile-stone  of  success. 
That  price  for  one  thing  gladly  would  I  pay; 
The  Dome,  my  idol,  that  I  'd  buy  with  life ! 

345  But  when  the  masters  offered  half  the  task 
Of  the  contested  bronzes  to  myself 
To  work  at  with  Lorenzo  I  refused, 
Too  filled  with  loathing  for  his  niggling  ways, 
Too  filled  with  awe  at  his  divine  result. 

3 50  "His  is  the  best;  give  it  to  him!"  I  said. 
"He  is  a  sculptor;  I  an  architect!" 
This  I  had  added,  but  my  soul  was  sore 
With  its  first  search  by  doubt  and  questioning. 


BRUNELLESCHI 

I  was  a  boy  then  still  —  oh,  twenty-four, 

355  But  tardy  riping.    Architects  take  time. 
And  I  was  yet  to  strive  a  score  of  years 
Ere  I  was  let  put  shoulder  to  the  task 
I  lived  but  to  accomplish.    Had  I  known, 
My  patience  might  have  flagged;  but  eager  hope 

360  Shone  gorgeous  from  my  fog  of  doubt ;   I  knew, 
Better  for  my  defeat,  the  only  road 
For  me  to  victory.    An  architect 
Essential  to  the  core  was  I,  as  sure 
As  was  Ghiberti  sculptor ;  nay,  as  sure 

365  As  Donatello  was  so,  even  then, 

In  careless  ladhood,  recognized  and  loved 
As  such  by  me  and  cherisht;  and  as  sure 
As  was  my  dear  Masaccio  painter,  then  — 
Nay,  on  that  instant,  mayhap  —  being  born, 

370  So  soon  to  flame  to  genius  most  divine, 
A  beauteous  meteor  in  our  morning  skies, 
So  soon  to  sink  and  vanish  ere  the  day, 
Far  sowing  sky-seed. 

Donatello  then  — 

375  As  much  chagrined,  more  than  as  much  elate, 
As  I  at  the  strife's  ending,  for  his  model  gained, 
For  such  a  child,  proud  praise  —  struck  palm  to  palm 
With  me,  his  elder  by  a  half,  that  we  would  go 

16 


MORNING 

And  seek  art's  fountain-head  together.    Word 
380  Came  down  the  wind,  from  none  knows  whence, 

That  the  old  ways  were  wanting.    All  the  air 

Was  rife  with  spirit  not  to  be  defined 

As  of  new  dawn  upon  the  bleakness  past. 

And  we,  in  whom  the  very  heart  of  spring 
385  Leapt  riotous  with  promise,  strapt  our  packs 

And  made  off  madly  down  the  lane  to  Rome. 

Scarce  we  lookt  back,  or  if  our  eyes  reglimpsed 

The  ancient  cincture  with  its  pride  of  towers  — 

This  withed  fagot  buncht  with  beetling  threat — 
390  'Twas  not  with  wish  to  linger,  but  as  one 

Who  from  a  loved  and  longed-for  mistress  goes 

To  hazard  fortune  for  her — sooner  gone 

The  sooner  come  again  — nor  lets  his  love 

Slacken  his  pace  wide-worldwards. 
395  What  to  gain 

Had  we  in  mind  up-treasured  ?    Scarce  we  knew. 

We  but  obeyed  an  instinct  sharp  as  fate 

That  prickt  us  onward  to  an  unknown  goal. 

Youth,  and  the  restless  anguish  of  defeat, 
400  The  sense  of  boundless  spaces  and  of  power 

Unmeasured  and  immeasurable,  life, 

Love,  faith,  and  God — these  filled  our  consciousness. 

Rough  was  the  way;  our  purse  made  Friday-fare; 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Our  packs  tho'  slender  were  too  sore  a  load 
405  ( We  wisht  our  packs  and  purses  might  exchange ) ; 
Yet  we  were  joyous  as  two  larks  in  spring 
Loosed  to  the  boundless  ether,  and  our  song 
Piped  heartfelt  from  high  blue  of  times  to  be. 
So  hastened  we,  scarce  witting,  on  to  Rome. 

410 And  Rome  repaid!    Arnolfo  was  my  sire, 
But  Rome  the  milky  dam  that  gave  me  suck. 
And  Donatello  — oh,  the  rapture  keen 
To  watch  him  blossom  in  that  garth  of  eld ! 
A  downy  velvet  barely  duskt  his  lip  — 

415  His  hand,  it  was  already  man's;  his  mind 
A  forthright  god's,  creative;  and  his  soul 
Flower-sweetly  childlike,  as  it  still  is  so. 
We  lived  as  one.    No  nuptial  bonds  more  close 
Could  wed  two  natures  than  our  friendship  bound 

420  His  heart  and  mine.    We  held  each  other's  soul. 
No  deeps,  no  backs  or  eddies  of  our  lives 
Kept  we  o'er-glozed  from  each  other's  view. 
And  as  the  years  went  on  he  kept  me  young, 
Then  and  thereafter;  my  imprisoned  soul, 

425  Denied  expression's  vent,  had  grizzled  else 
And  packt  to  crabbed  hardness,  impotent 
To  wield  the  power  itself  conceived  and  was. 

18 


MORNING 

Love  can  no  more  than  keep  the  channels  free 
Wherethro'  may  life  tumultuous  pour  its  flood. 

430  And  I  —  not  Donatello  only  but 

All  Rome  was  mine,  and  all  the  boundless  world 
That  was  Rome.    Of  the  heady  cup  of  time, 
Ripened  within  her  deep-delved  vaults,  I  drank 
Deep  and  divinely  till  my  soul  was  filled. 

435  Wherever  crumbling  fragment  broke  the  sod 
In  desert  purlieus  of  the  shrunken  town 
I  grubbed  and  prodded  with  a  fevered  zeal 
To  have  its  secrets,  as  a  dog  will  dig 
To  lay  his  fangs  upon  a  cherisht  bone 

440  Stored  ripe  in  burial.    Little  scaped  my  flair ; 
Tho'  oft  —  as  if  a  ghoul  who  sought  in  graves 
Unholy  treasure  —  I  was  driven  forth 
With  harsh  reviling ;  but  as  oft  returned, 
Until,  with  endless  work,  enormous  store 

445  Of  measured  pelf  I  had  laid  by  —  rich  stuff 
Wherewith  I  builded  up  anew  in  mind 
August  antiquity. 

How  'twas  I  lived, 
Those  roofless  winters  long,  I  hardly  know, 

450  So  distanced  are  they  and  so  blued  with  life. 
My  patrimony  of  a  piece  of  land 


BRUNELLESCHI 

I'd  sold  when  first  I  went  from  Florence  — all 
That  I  possessed  save  meager  scraps  of  wage 
I  got  from  tasks  that  famine  found  at  hand 

455  To  tide  me  over  from  one  hungry  spell 
Until  the  next.    Empty  I  workt  for  wage, 
And  filled  I  workt  for  glory,  giving  all, 
All  of  my  best,  to  living  with  the  forms, 
In  crumbling  and  dishonored  fragments  hoar, 

460  That  clothed  the  ancient  world,  and  glorified 
Its  all  existence. 

Oft  when  evening  fell 
And  the  encircling  hills  were  aureoled 
With  sunset's  flame,  imperially  clad 

465  In  purple  from  the  deepening  west,  I  walkt 
In  the  dim  dingle  where  the  Forum  lay 
Already  dipt  in  gloom  as  if  its  dreams 
Of  other  days  had  brimmed  it  with  a  draft 
Of  bitter-sweetness.    Round  me  cattle  browsed 

470  And  silence  was,  where  once  the  Caesars  sate 
The  throne  of  earth,  amid  the  clang  of  arms 
And  babble  of  unnumbered  multitudes, 
Prankt  with  all  gorgeousness  from  all  the  ends 
Of  prostrate  empire.    From  the  sweeping  turf, 

475  From  tufted  copses,  rose  into  the  dusk 

Vast  ghostly  columns  —  giants,  half  their  height 

20 


MORNING 

Awful  up-turreting,  who  stationed  there 
Consoleless,  as  unsaviored  patriarchs 
Kept  state,  imprisoned  yet  in  limbo,  ere 

480  With  love  divine  Christ  stoopt  to  lift  them  out 
Who  else  were  pinioned  there  eternally, 
Nor  dead  nor  living,  yet  both  dead  and  live. 
And  in  the  eerie  gloaming  I  could  deem 
Those  mighty  forms  out-raised  to  me  their  hands, 

485  Mute  supplicants  for  my  compassion.  "We," 

I  mused  them  yearning,  "are  not  blotcht  with  slime 
That  cankered  empire;  wherefore  be  we  doomed 
To  stay  discarded?    Lift  us  to  the  light. 
Our  souls  are  heirs  of  beauty's  golden  prime, 

490  And  we  bear  message  of  that  time  serene 
To  future  ages.    List  thou  to  our  word 
And  speak  it  for  us  to  the  world.    It  waits! " 

Like  the  rich  wreckage  of  a  treasure-fleet 
Engulft  beneath  the  ravening  seas  of  time 

495  With  but  the  mastheads  wind-bleacht,  I  divined 
The  wealth  that  lay  corroding  in  sunk  holds, 
An  age's  ransom;  and  I  set  me  on 
More  wilful  to  redeem  to  daily  use 
The  wasting  beauty.    But  of  all  the  vast 

500  Innumerably  thronging  vestiges 

2  I 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Of  ancient  grandeur,  two  most  filled  my  soul 
With  wonder  and  my  mind  with  endless  zeal 
To  have  their  hearts'  whole  secret  out,  and  mine. 
As  never  elsewhere,  surely,  'tis  within 

505  The  Amphitheater's  o'erwhelming  sweep 
Conception  grasps  the  miracle  of  Rome. 
Within  its  awsome  valley,  walled  about 
By  mountain  ledges  shelving  to  the  blue, 
Chaliced  all  empire.    Whiles,  at  burning  noon, 

510  I  sought  the  umbrage  of  the  corridors 
Which  circle  endlessly  that  vast  ellipse 
To  scape  the  oppressive  awe  that  reigned  and  smote 
Within  the  roofless  cinclure,  as  old  wine 
Had  sod  all  conscience  with  cupt  day,  until, 

515  In  anguish  of  sun-drunkenness,  I  fled 

To  vaulted  twilight.    Thence  again,  from  dreams 
Of  glorious  eld,  refresht  would  I  come  forth 
To  witness  Evening  at  her  altar  rites, 
Coping  the  chalice  with  a  filmy  pall 

520  Of  gentian  shadow  like  a  brooding  wing. 
And  whilom,  when  from  out  the  mystic  bowl 
Brimmed  with  the  purple  sacrament  of  night 
My  mind  had  drunk  oblivion,  would  my  soul 
Espouse  in  dreams  the  soul  of  ancientry. 

525  'Tis  from  those  spousals'  sacred  unison 

22 


MORNING 

Have  sprung  these  children  fresh  wherewith  is  sown 
By  us  our  Florence.    Mother  of  our  seed, 
The  Theater  hath  stood  for  worldly  power 
In  spirit  beauty,  and  hath  vased  the  Word 
530  That  Rome  too  was  a  vessel  of  the  shrine, 
Whence  after-time  shall  taste  the  sacrament. 

i 

Rome's  sacred  grandeur  most  the  Theater, 

But  most  Rome's  unity  the  Pantheon 

Symbols.    Eternity  !    None  other  form 
535  Of  human  handiwork  so  speaks  that  thought 

With  the  unendedness  that  rounds  it!    Rome! 

None  other  thought  so  keeps  her  puissance 

As  doth  Eternity!    One  only  creature 

Of  the  almighty  Mind,  the  ends  of  earth 
540  Together  all  were  gathered  up  within 

One  fascicle  of  governance,  that  there, 

More  certain  of  fruition,  might  be  sown, 

And  endlessly  disseminated,  seed 

Of  life  eternal.    Prescient  of  its  fate 
545  As  emblem  of  the  empire,  both  of  man 

And  of  essential  Wisdom,  pagan  priests 

Did  sanctify  that  temple  to  gods  seven 

Who  o'er  their  darkness  shed  foreshadowing  gleams 

Of  very  God — to  Time,  to  Power,  to  Swiftness, 

23 


BRUNELLESCHI 

550  Beauty,  and  Chastity,  and,  prince  of  these, 
Love,  and  the  Sword  that  Love  is  girt  withal. 
And  so  it  stands  epitome  of  Christ 
And  of  His  Church,  in  chaste  perfection  framed 
And  rounded  into  one  with  endless  things. 

555  Crumbled,  without,  and  craggy  from  the  storms 
Of  wasting  winters  and  the  ruthless  hand 
Of  spoilers,  scarce  the  eye  discerns  at  first 
A  fearsome  beauty,  tho'  the  gracious  porch 
Prepares  and  wins  one  on  to  enter  straight. 

560  But  like  a  saintly  nature,  cloistered  close 

'Neath  sackcloth  and  a  front  of  haggard  want, 
The  spirit  harbors  there  within,  safe-shrined, 
Sweet,  and  abundant.    Swiftly,  from  the  port, 
Or  ere  the  ponderous  bronze  hath  clanged  behind, 

565  The  entrant  halts,  with  awe  confounded.  .  .  .  God ! 
This  is  Thy  House !  .  .  .  A  cavern  splendid,  vast, 
Aflood  with  golden  mellowness  of  gloom, 
Clothed  with  all  sumptuous  substance  of  the  earth ! 
Around,  no  window  breaks  the  stately  file 

570  Of  niche  and  column,  columned  niche  and  wall ; 
But  from  above  alone  there  swims  the  day, 
A  cirque  of  plumbless  ether,  thro'  the  dome 
In  benediction,  like  the  eye  of  God 
That  looks  serenely  to  the  heart  of  things. 

24 


MORNING 

575  Oft  have  I  seen  a  sheaf  of  streaming  rays 

Pour  thro'  that  sky-space  from  its  fount  unseen 
And  down  the  coffered  facets  of  the  vault 
Strike  seals  of  flaming  gold  as  if  the  hand 
Of  the  Almighty  had  reacht  down  and  touched 

580  To  liquid  life  of  fire  the  senseless  stone, 
Senseless  no  longer,  but  a  sentient  soul 
Wrought  inly. 

There  it  was  I  gathered  up, 
To  treasure  in  my  inmost  being,  funds 

585  Of  inspiration  and  of  reverence 

I  else  had  wanted  for  the  mighty  task 
My  mind  made  headway  unto.    Deep  I  searcht 
Into  its  secret  making.    How,  and  why, 
And  in  what  sequence  were  the  elements 

590  That  made  that  greatness,  wrought  by  feeble  hands 
To  power  and  beauty  ?    If  I  gloated  long 
To  find  the  chaste  proportions  of  an  arch 
Or  fix  the  spirit  beauty  of  a  shaft  — 
Just  so  much  lengthened,  so  much  viewless  curve, 

595  So  burgeoned  upward  for  the  final  grace  — 

How  more,  bethink  thee,  was  I  rapt  and  pledged 
To  master  mastery  in  the  mighty  dome ! 

To  build  more  beautiful  was  not  for  man; 


BRUNELLESCHI 

But  might  I  reach  its  beauty?    Not  for  me 
600  The  answer  to  that  question.  'Twas  perchance 
A  form  less  noble  that  I  had  to  deal 
Withal— for  must  the  circle  stand  alone 
As  form  of  full  perfection.    And  perchance 
Some  freer  hand,  less  loyal  to  the  scheme 
605  Already  sanctioned  and  imbedded  deep 
In  fundamental  feeling,  had  devised 
Some  fresh  transition  to  the  perfect  form. 
I  know  not;  for  my  mind  was  fixed  fast 
On  the  solution  of  the  hardy  task 
610  Arnolfo  set.    Its  hardness  made  its  charm 

More  subtle  and  more  potent.    And  the  end  — 
See!  it  is  beautiful  —  and  all  my  best 
Have  I  poured  out,  thro'  all,  thro'  all  my  life 
To  make  it  so.    I  will  not  question  it! 

615  But  oh,  the  length  of  travail  to  that  end; 

To  but  the  putting  shoulder  to  the  work; 

To  but  the  privilege  to  show  my  plan; 

To  but  the  right  to  speak  before  the  Board; 

To  but  the  basis  whereon  I  might  speak; 
620  To  but  the  power  to  make  that  basis  sure ! 

'Twas  into  that  abyss  the  years  still  poured 

The  while  I  naught  produced  that  might  have  lived 

26 


MORNING 

Had  I  been  taken  off — nothing  that  lasts 
Save  friends  and  loving  pupils.    Caesar  so 

625  Saw  life  pass  by  and  leave  him  in  the  shade, 
Whilst  others  pluckt  their  fruit  and  ate  of  it. 
Men  who  are  masterful  beyond  the  bounds 
Of  their  small  epochs  aye  must  wait  till  Time 
Hath  given  the  glass  the  allotted  turnings  slow 

630  Ere  to  their  stage  the  entrance-ways  are  cleared. 
But  meanwhile,  thinkest  theirs  a  grateful  task, 
To  wait  and  watch  the  train  of  life  go  by 
And  eat  their  hearts  out  for  the  chance  to  live  ? 
I  saw  Lorenzo  swim  the  cresting  wave 

635  Of  sunshine  and  success,  and  many  more 
Less  gifted  win  a  worthy  place — just  claims 
Put  forth  to  honor's  lasting  name — while  I, 
Conscious  of  greatness,  kept  the  shadowy  wings 
And  dull  despised  background  of  the  scene. 

640  Those  were  the  years  my  heart  had  aged  and  tired, 

Along  with  cooling  blood  and  grizzling  hairs, 

Had  I  not  felt  me  richly  blossoming 

In  Donatello  and  Masaccio. 

They  spoke  my  message  in  the  countless  ways 
645  The  finger  cannot  follow,  pouring  forth 

A  freshening  flood  of  thought  not  theirs  the  less 

27 


BRUNELLESCHI 

For  being  pregnant  with  my  spirit,  ripe 
With  a  sane  wisdom  that  had  ne'er  obtained 
In  their  unreasoned  and  impulsive  power 

650  Elsewise.  Their  essence  was  eternal  youth 
That  knows  no  trammels  and  no  even  pace. 
I  steadied  their  swift  hands.    I  trimmed  their  sails 
In  dangerous  flaws.  Well  — I,  Filippo,  played 
Lorenzo's  r6le  to  their  Filippo's!    See? 

655 1  kept  them  careful,  for  the  vital  sap 
They  kept  alert  in  me. 

Supple — and  sweet, 

I  hope,  a  little  — those  two  kept  my  heart 
By  their  large  understanding  and  rich  power 

660  Of  swift  sure  sympathy  that  glimpsed  an  end, 
No  sooner  shadowed  by  my  first  essay. 
They  trailed  my  mind- ways  by  their  insight  keen. 
Their  live  encouragement  establisht  rock 
Under  frail  fancy's  outworks,  till  defense 

665  Took  shape  aggressive  of  fixt  purposes 

That  lookt  cock-sure  unyieldingness  —  no  more  — 
To  minds  that  gallopt  up,  and  off.    They  say 
I'm  set,  that  nothing  budges  me;  nor  guess 
How  I  have  lived  but  by  encouragement  — 

670  I  cannot  breathe  else.    But  the  type  of  mind 
Far  alienate  from  mine,  which  little  brings 

28 


MORNING 

To  stir  my  consciousness,  which  little  pricks 
The  spur  of  my  presentment,  I  oppose 
With  stolid  fixedness.    And  then  some  say 

675  That  I  am  wilful  and  contrarious. 

Will  were  not  will  were  it  not  wilful!   Will 
Were  needful  to  a  waiting  task,  and  mine 
Hath  mostly  been  but  waiting. 

But  enough 

680  Of  such  philosophy!  'Twas  back  and  forth 

Thro'  twenty  arduous  years,  'twixt  schoolmate  Rome 
And  mistress  Florence,  ere  the  dangling  prize 
Plumpt  in  my  pocket,  and  e'en  yet  with  thorns 
Thereto  that  kept  it  unenjoyable. 

685  Lorenzo,  yoked  with  me  in  equal  power  — 
A  doomed  duumvirate!    In  earlier  days 
I  had  refused  to  weight  him  with  my  hand 
Upon  his  shoulder  whilst  he  made  his  gates. 
I  knew  the  folly  of  such  harnessing, 

690  And  while  it  galled  me  gave  him  liberal  rein 
To  win  his  laurels.    Now  my  score  of  years 
Must  go  to  feed  his  emptiness. 

No  more 
Knew  he  of  building  than  his  potter's  clay. 

695  He  had  been  taskt  at  the  minutest  things  — 
Gates,  glass,  and  gildings  for  the  altar-top; 

29 


BRUNELLESCHI 

And  ne'er  his  eye  had  scanned  a  broader  space 
Than  his  two  hands ;  or,  if  it  scanned,  with  fear. 
Ah!  but  he'd  had  the  wisdom  sane-insane 

700  To  join  the  Guild  of  Builders  —  to  what  end 

Requires  more  wisdom  than  I  Ve  gleaned  to  guess ; 
For  I  think  he  intrigued  not  for  the  Dome  — 
He  feared  it,  rather.    But  he'd  not  the  grace  — 
When,  as  Filippo's  opposite  and  so 

705  The  one  most  like  to  chasten,  he  was  drawn 
To  yoke-up  with  me  — flatly  to  refuse, 
As  decency  required.    A  useless  pall 
Of  lead  hung  on  me  was  he  from  the  first ; 
And  had  it  not  been  like  the  great  refusal 

710  To  cast  aside  the  task  that  heaven  had  set, 
And  peevishly  to  mope  because  full  sway 
I  could  not  have,  I  should  have  said  them  nay. 
"  Or  he  or  I ;  not  both !  "   But  for  that  he 
Was  useless,  and  well  knew  him  so,  and  that 

7 1 5 1  knew  that  canny  time  would  show  it  out, 
I  took  what  I  could  get,  one  half  the  laud 
And  twice  the  task — to  count  his  presence  there 
At  least  the  burthen  of  the  task  itself! 
So  we  were  off  at  last. 

720  But  now  let's  off 

And  scale  my  mountain  wonder !    Once  again 

30 


MORNING 

Ere  they  cease  breathing,  glad  these  nostrils  mine 
Shall  scent  the  azure  gardens  of  the  sky 
From  that  high  hollow  hill,  my  bloom  of  blooms 
725  The  wonder-blossom  of  this  town  of  flowers  — 
Fairest  corolla  of  this  flower  of  towns ! 


BRUNELLESCHI 

PART  II  — NOON 

TIME:  1 'he  same.    Midday. 

SCENE  :   Within  and  on  the  Dome  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore. 

PERSONS:  Brunelleschi  and  Andrea ;  and  later  Donatella 

and  the  workmen  on  the  Dome.  Brunelleschi  speaks. 


I 


S  DONATELLO  there?    I  count  on  him 
To  give  a  note  of  gala  to  this  last 
Brief  junket  to  the  clouds.   Astonishing 

730  How  he  keeps  up  that  spirit !    To  be  sure 

He  hath  but  three  score  spring-tides  to  his  name, 
And  that 's  still  April  if  the  wind  is  right 
(And  you  are  Donatello)  e'en  suppose 
You  have  two  hearts,  and  one  of  them  mine  own, 

735  To  wean  from  winter!    April  sure '11  be  May, 
With  him  along  —  not  even  last  good-byes 
Could  hold  out  showery  'gainst  that  sunniness. 
On,  then !    Belike  we  '11  find  him  at  the  top, 
Where  suns  belong.    Not  earth  could  keep  him  down. 

740  He  floats  upon  the  world  like  buoyant  gold 
On  quicksilver. 

33 


BRUNELLESCHI 

How  steep  these  steps,  to  feet 
With  loads  less  light,  prickt  on  by  will  so  e'er 
To  win  the  azure!  Three  score  years  and  nine 

745  Had  never  ventured  to  essay  them,  but 

That  two  score  planned  them,  and  that  three  score's  gone 
Already  to  their  summit,  blithe  as  morn. 
Yet  nor  so  endless  many  nor  so  steep 
As  steps  impalpable  I  clomb  of  yore 

750  To  give  these  day!    I've  earned  them,  and  I've  paid 
High  value  for  their  steepness,  o'er  and  o'er 
Redoing  in  the  undoing  dark  the  deed 
Each  day  had  ended. 

Let  me  catch  my  breath, 

755  Ere  we  climb  on,  behind  this  parapet. 

Again  I  shall  not  see  thee,  Florence,  lie 

In  languid  loveliness  beneath,  thy  towers 

Reversing  in  perspective,  vanisht  down 

And  reaching  earthwards,  where  I  soon  shall  lie. 

760  How  I  have  loved  thee !    Me  no  nuptial  joys 

Have  weaned  from  oneness  with  thy  spirit's  flower, 
Out-blossomed  from  my  bosom.    Only  thee 
My  heart  hath  yearned  unto.    Only  thee 
My  soul  hath  known  in  rapture.    Only  thee! 

765  Take  thou  this  child  that  hath  been  born  of  us 

34 


NOON 

In  spirit  spousals,  and  upon  thy  breast 
Bear  it  forever  as  my  pledge  of  troth 
In  Heaven.    All  my  being  be  up-caught 
And  mystic-corporate  therein  with  thine, 
770  A  thing  eternal,  and  forever  thou! 

And  now  the  Stygian  narrows  of  the  stair 
Pent  sidewise  upward  'twixt  the  double  vault, 
O'erarcht  and  buttressed  round  and  overthwart! 
A  breathing  at  each  peep-hole  —  mind  you  that! 
775  Ha!    Glimpse  by  glimpse  we'll  sum  our  Florence  up, 
Minutest  miniatures  of  beauty  all. 

First,  over  there's  Palazzo  Vecchio, 
The  hoar  old  war-horse,  armored  cap-a-pie 
And  shadowy-visored,  thrusting  high  his  fist 
780  Fierce-clencht  and  mailed,  ready  for  the  blow. 

And  now  Or  San  Michele,  in  surprise, 

Lifts  eyebrows  o'er  all  shoulders  round  about, 

As  who  should  watch,  what  tho'  the  neighbors  drowse. 

Then  there's  sweet  Arno,  lady  lakelet  slim, 
785  Aslipping  'neath  her  bridges  thro'  the  town 
As  sleek  as  satin  with  her  silvery  smile. 

35 


BRUNELLESCHI 

And  here  we  have  a  band  of  citizens  — 
Sky-lofty  turrets— sullenly  athreat, 
Each  scowling  at  the  other.    Still  is  War 
790  Our  patron  spirit  tho'  o'erwreathed  with  flowers. 

But  stay !    Our  fateful  Chain !    I  nearly  bruised 
My  head  against  your  elbows,  my  good  friend. 
A  trifle  rude  to  punch  your  papa  so ! 
'Twas  I  that  fathered  you  —  remember  well! 

795  And  what  a  botch  Lorenzo  made  when  he 
Pretended  he  knew  all  there  was  to  know 
Of  such  as  chains !  We  should  have  had  our  Dome 
About  our  heads  if  he  had  had  his  way. 
Oh,  wondrous  days  that  dropt  a  farthing  dip 

800  Into  the  bushel-basket  of  the  Board ! 
I  didn't  have  to  make  believe  sick,  as, 
In  dudgeon,  some  of  them  made  out  I  did. 
I  was  beyond  endurance  sick  of  him, 
Lorenzo,  and  of  seeing  him  about 

805  And  looking  wise  and  careful  and  as  if 
It  all  depended  on  him,  when  the  most 
He  ever  ventured  was  to  hem  and  haw 
When  I  was  by,  and  then  to  put  a  spoke 
In  every  wheel  behind  my  back.    Why  can't 

8 10  A  man  know  what  he's  fit  for?    He  can  make, 

36 


NOON 

If  there 's  but  time,  a  marvel  of  a  door. 
I  Jm  free  to  say  the  one  he 's  making  now 
(And  has  been  making  since  I  can  recall) 
Will  far  outdo  the  best  was  ever  cast 

815  If  he  but  keep  it  up.    But  as  for  domes  — 

Well,  domes  are  not  his  art,  and  mine  they  are. 
He  wouldn't  utter  word  when  I  was  ill, 
He  was  so  frightened — let  the  time  drag  on, 
With  nothing  building,  till  the  men  were  wild 

820  To  get  ahead  and  the  whole  town  was  dazed 
To  see  the  work  stop  short,  and  all  the  crew 
Idle  and  boozing  round  the  place.    You  see 
The  work  had  reacht  a  stage  most  critical. 
The  overhanging,  inward,  of  the  stone 

825  Was  now  so  great  the  men  all  feared  to  work 
(No  wonder,  too)  unless  a  scaffolding 
And  hoardings  were  set  up.   And  then  again 
The  binding-chain  to  keep  the  upper  works, 
Once  built,  from  thrusting  out  in  vast  collapse 

830  Must  now  be  placed.   A  subtle  problem  each. 

When  once  I  got  about  again  I  saw 

The  time  had  come  for  action.   All  the  town 

Was  rife  with  rumors  most  discreditable. 

The  Dome  was  doomed— -nay,  damned.  The  very  men 

37 


BRUNELLESCHI 

835  On  whom  I  most  depended  were  at  point 
Of  mutiny,  infect  with  panic  fear 
Even  to  mount  the  works — reflection  sure 
Of  poor  Lorenzo's  feebleness.    Rule  men 
By  vacillation?    Never!    Certainty  — 

840  That  is  your  cue  for  masters.    But  be  sure 
Your  certainty  is  safe  —  else  failure  sure! 
Not  needful  best,  but  good — the  chance  to  prove 
What's  best  will  come  only  when  all  is  done, 
The  thing  already  judged  as  right.    Not  art7 

845 1  'm  speaking  of,  but  action.    Action  then, 
Not  art,  was  needful.    And  I  acted  soon. 
"  You  see,"  I  said,  "  the  folly  of  two  men 
As  masters  of  one  task.    Nor  he  nor  I 
Is  master  while  we  both  are  so.    Divide 

850  The  work.   There  are  two  tasks  at  hand.    Give  him 
His  choice." 

Lorenzo-like  he  chose  the  chain  — 
And  lucky  'twas.    The  scaffold  was  the  road 
To  instant  credit  and  to  confidence, 

855  Tho'  but  the  moment's  makeshift;  while  the  chain 
Scarce  mattered  for  the  nonce,  tho'  pregnant  'twas 
With  future  fate  for  good  or  ill  —  a  dome 
Or  a  disaster. 

Half  an  hour 's  enough 

38 


NOON 

860  (When  you  have  travailed  half  a  life  before 

To  meet  that  half-hour)  to  show  forth  a  scheme, 
And  match  with  manhood.    Scarcely  that,  it  was, 
Before  my  men  were  eager  to  begin, 
So  simple  and  so  safe  my  method  was, 

865  So  entertaining  in  its  childlikeness, 

Like  most  big  things.   And  while  Lorenzo  sweat 
About  one  foolish  lap  of  chain,  we  slung 
Our  scaffold  quite  around,  a  perfect  trough 
To  work  in. 

870  But  the  chain?   The  Dome  hung  now 

'Twixt  heaven  and  earth— 'twixt  fortune  and  the  grave 
And  I  was  taskless,  all  my  men  dismissed, 
Waiting  until  Lorenzo's  work  was  done. 
You  see  the  situation.    I  must  be 

875  Called  in,  advised  with;  and  on  such  a  thing 
As  he  had  botcht  but  one  report  could  make  — 
'Twas  worthless.    Easy  as  I  might  I  was 
On  old  Lorenzo;  easy  could  not  be. 
He  was  a  good  man  in  the  wrongest  place. 

880  I  set  him  down  as  lightly  as  I  could — 
To  his  relief,  I  'm  sure.  Tho'  he  took  care 
To  draw  his  stipend  for  a  year  or  so 
His  ghost  was  laid.    No  more  he  haunted  me. 


39 


BRUNELLESCHI 

And  big  he  showed — most  unexpected  big — 
885  When  later  on  he  let  me  lend  a  hand 
At  casting  his  great  bronzes;  ne'er  a  word 
To  sting  regret  within  me  to  remorse. 
Take  thou  not  queer  Lorenzo  for  a  cad; 
He 's  good-sort  human,  inwardly  —  deep  in ! 

890  One  other  battle  royal  must  I  win 

Ere  the  Dome  reacht  its  zenith.    Some  my  men, 
Pampered  with  adulation  by  the  crowd 
( For  now  the  Dome  so  marcht  they  thought  themselves, 
And  were  thought  of  as  heroes  on  the  pave — 

895  Lordly  aristocrats  of  labor),  some 

Began  to  say,  "The  Dome  is  ours.  We  hold 
In  our  right  hands  its  making.    Not  again, 
Should  we  drop  out,  could  they  our  places  fill. 
And  not  again,  when  this  is  finisht,  we 

900  Shall  chance  upon  its  like,  for  livelihood. 
Who  locketh  not  his  larder  soon  shall  lack. 
Let  us  but  smite  now  while  the  iron  is  hot 
And  reap  our  harvest!"    Mingled  metaphors 
That  matcht  their  logic  lame!    I  felt  the  storm 

905  In  the  close  sullen  weather  of  their  look 
When  for  the  ordering  of  the  hourly  task 
I  voiced  my  will;  tho'  I  no  notice  took 

40 


NOON 

Lest  the  storm  break  —  perchance  it  might  blow  o'er. 
But  naught  save  thunder  eases  thunder-heads; 
910  So  they  played  Jove  a  while,  and  thundered  sore. 

But  architecture  is  not  solitaire. 

The  Dome  was  not  my  making,  nor  was't  theirs. 

It  was  the  town's.   And  deep  in  principle 

I  saw  their  claims  a  menace,  even  tho' 

915  The  letter  of  their  law  seem  righteous. 

There ! 

Thro'  this  last  loophole  ere  we  gain  the  top, 
See  you  the  lift  serene  of  Giotto's  tower  ? 
'Twas  there  I  poised  my  purpose.    Oft  and  oft, 

920  When  the  crowd  crampt  me  and  I  needed  air 
Of  solitude  to  breathe  me  to  myself, 
I  climbed  the  lonely  terrace  of  the  tower 
To  see  things  whole,  unfrittered  by  detail, 
As  one  might  pray  upon  a  mountain-top. 

925  First,  as  a  child,  I  there  had  glimpsed  the  Dome 
Achieved — me  dedicate  to  its  achievement. 
Fateful  perspective!    So  I  gained  a  force 
Of  singleness  and  wholeness  always  there 
On  the  sky-platform.    So  it  stands  to  me 

930  Supreme  in  purpose  —  loftiest  poise  of  power, 
And  fairest  marriage  of  the  earth  with  heaven 

41 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Man's  hand  hath  coupled,  as  *t  were  hand  of  God's. 
An  hour  in  skydom  cleansed  my  turbid  mind 
That  it  pellucid  ran  and  forceful.    Straight 

935  Across  the  interval  'twixt  mount  and  mount 
I  flung  my  manifesto  —  oh,  not  heard 
Of  course  by  those  who  swarmed  the  scaffoldings, 
But  thus  I  eased  me — and  a  breathless  hour 
Made  good  my  wind-tossed  challenge.    They  must  go ! 

940  Their  claims  were  canceled.    Florence  was  the  source 
Whence  sprang  the  undertaking,  and  her  weal 
Was  paramount.    I  would  not  see  her  held 
And  throttled  by  a  gang  of  thugs  whose  palms 
Were  itching  but  for  lucre.    They  must  go ! 

945  No  explanation  gave  I,  for  he  saps 

The  argument  of  force  who  salves  the  blow 
With  vain  palaver;  simply  —  they  must  go! 

This  was  a  Saturday.    On  Monday  morn 

I  had  a  crew  of  masons  at  the  Dome 
950  Gathered  in  secret  on  the  Sunday  night 

And  pledged  to  silence  till  they  came  to  work. 

Before  the  week  was  up  the  game  was  won; 

My  old  crestfallen  foreman  came  to  beg 

For  reinstatement  with  the  other  men. 
955  And  was  I  glad  to  get  them  back?  At  wage 

42 


NOON 

Lower  than  they  had  got  before  the  fight! 
They  've  never  bothered  since. 

But  hist !  I  hear 

Their  voices  as  we  near  their  height,  down  thro' 
960  The  hatchway  floating.    Bless  'em,  how  they  sing 
At  the  blest  work  like  larks  amid  the  blue — 
The  thugs  I  kept  from  pelf  at  point  of  sword ! 
They  are  my  very  hands,  did  they  but  know. 
Ah,  but  they  need  my  hand  to  keep  'em  so ! 

965  One  more  good  breathing  and  we  are  arrived. 

The  air  is  hereabouts  more  heavenly  pure 

Than  even  nature's  mountain-summits  shed 

Upon  the  jaded  spirit.    Mary's  fane 

Climaxeth  to  most  freshing  loveliness 
970  Thus  claspt  by  boundless-breathing  heaven. 

At  last ! 

It's  rare  to  climb  a  mountain  thro'  a  cave, 

And  burst  from  shelving  twilight  on  a  world 

Aglitter ! 
975  And  aglitter  with  such  gauds ! 

My  Donatello,  like  the  sun  himself 

For  bravery!    This  golden  doublet  well 
•   Becomes  thy  youth.    The  basket  must  be  full, 

Or  must  have  been  ere  gleaming  coin  like  this 

43 


BRUNELLESCHI 

980  Leakt  out  of  it.    My  cup  had  not  been  full 

Hadst  thou  not  come  this  day  to  celebrate 

My  last  up-coming  with  me. 

Greetings  all ! 

Hands  all,  you  make  a  marvel.    Music  ne'er 
985  Rang  true  as  ring  your  trowels.    Steel  on  stone  — 

They  be  my  troubadours! 

Among  the  clouds 

This  fabric's  marble  all  immaculate 

Finds  fit  and  friendly  home;  their  milky  breasts 
990  Are  not  more  spotless  than  our  shrine  that  lifts 

Its  perforate  ecstasy  of  chiseled  snow 

Into  the  airy  zenith,  point  and  spire 

Of  symboled  sweetness  to  the  sons  of  men  — 

A  lily  whose  frail  petals  turn  aback 
995  In  dimpling  whorls  around  the  clasped  bud 

In  rippling  splendor  of  last  loveliness, 

One  with  the  heavens.    That  is  my  dream  of  dreams. 

Might  I  but  live  to  see  it  blossom  forth! 

But  you,  dear  friends,  let  them  not  change  my  plan ! 
1000  You  know  the  wonders  that  have  been  proposed  — 
The  witless  schemes  that,  since  we  closed  the  Dome, 
The  know-alls  have  put  forward — I,  of  course, 
The  Dome's  imaginer,  incapable 

44 


NOON 

Of  capping  it,  tho'  all  the  world  beside 
1005  Know  how  it  should  be  finisht!    You  recall 
The  lady  Gaddi's  topknot?    Milliners, 
March  hares,  and  mountebanks  are  fecund  all 
At  capping  climaxes  of  shrine-work.    Bah ! 
At  heights  where  genius  trembles  lest  it  fall 
ioio  You'll  find  all  such  folk  quite  at  home.    That's  why, 
In  fear  of  future  patchwork  when  no  more 
By  sonneteering  I  can  silence  them, 
I  have  forestalled  suggestions  with  cut  stone  — 
Enough,  they  say,  to  build  another  church 
1015  Atop  o'  this!    So  be't — a  shrine  apart 

To  yearn  and  soar  unfaltering  up  the  blue! 
All 's  done  but  setting,  and  that  goes  apace, 
Thanks  to  these  faithful  hands  — if  faithful  kept! 

How  lang'rous  up  the  hills  the  town  is  lapt — 
1020  In  crumbled  velvet  the  long  river-plain 

Clothing,  and  lipping  o'er  each  undulance 

Like  rugs  rich-piled  from  morning's  ancient  looms; 

All  generously  dyed  with  smoky  hues 

Of  ochres  and  of  umbers  and  of  earths 
1025  Riped  rusty-ruddy  'neath  hoar  brooding  suns, 

And  dull  film-bloomed  as  dusty  leopard-skins! 

Never  I  knew  Val  d'Arno  sweet  as  now 

45 


BRUNELLESCHI 

When  bitter  mingles  with  its  sweetness  that 
I  nevermore  may  view  it  thus,  above, 

1030  Master,  and  one  with  this  my  mastery. 
Never  were  hills  so  lusciously  embloomed 
With  florent  verdancy  as  these  mine  eyes  — 
Waxt  living  things  endowed  with  super-sense, 
The  all-life  sentience  that's  the  architect's  — 

1035  Now  breathe  and  drink  into  their  inmost  self 
And  clasp  with  love's  embraces  to  their  heart 
In  ecstasy  of  voiceless  longing !   Ah ! 
This  bitter-sweetness  of  last  times !   Ah  me ! 

Look  where  I  will  there  leap  to  life  renewed 
1040  Remembrances  that  lift  the  tapestry 

Of  three  score  cycles  'fore  me.    O'er  again, 
Within  a  moment's  musing,  all  my  life 
I  pass  in  swift  review,  as  men  who  drown, 
Adrown  in  azure.    But  look  where  I  will 
1045 1  see  no  task  accomplisht — all's  to  do 

As  were  I  yet  a  youth  untried.    Naught  save 
My  tiny  cell  in  Santa  Croce's  garth 
Of  all  the  tasks  is  nested  quite,  and  that 
Least  winged  of  them  all.    Had  I  but  come 
1 050  Of  age  ere  one-and-forty  there 'd  been  time 
To  round  the  region  of  a  full  career 

46 


NOON 

And  to  define  its  cincture.    Now,  I  know 

That  when  my  lamps  are  out  there  may  be  some 

Who  faithfully  will  strive  not  to  belie 

1055  The  large,  serene  intent  wherewith  I  wrought; 
That  comforts  me.    But  still  there'll  many  be 
Who  wilfully  or  wantonly  will  work, 
Or  ignorantly,  to  bring  all  to  naught 
My  doing  and  obscure  my  meaning.    They 

1060  Are  in  my  bosom  who'll  betray  my  art — 
Well-meaning  Frank  and  others  of  his  ilk. 
And  out  beyond  my  circle  close  of  those 
Whose  hands  are  as -my  living  flesh,  whose  faith 
Will  guard  my  concept  as  their  very  own, 

1065  Are  countless  whom  my  rimed  darts  have  barbed 
To  rankle  'gainst  me.    They  have  dogged  my  steps 
With  fangs  and  yelping,  and  have  clogged  my  course 
With  sand  and  quagmires  of  primed  argument 
Thro'  all  my  life,  till  now  the  hour 's  at  hand 

1070  When  I  must  leave  chaotic  all  my  works  — 
My  realm  unwalled,  exposed  to  free  attack, 
My  song  unsung,  my  visions  unfulfilled— 
All,  all  my  tasks  loose-ended.  Was  e'er  life 
So  full  of  labors  and  so  void  of  deed  ? 

1075  I  reap  not  who  have  sown  —  my  tragedy, 

Perchance  all  life's.   Yet  I'd  not  change  my  strife 

47 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Of  seed-time  for  their  harvest  who  ne'er  knew 
The  sweat  of  sowing,  the  sharp  appetite 
And  savor  of  the  furrow.    Furrowed  deep 
1080  My  Florence  is  by  this  right  hand  of  mine, 
And  seeded  by  this  brain's  broad  sowing,  lopt 
To  the  quick  sap,  and  pleacht  to  fruitfulness. 

Down  there  below  the  serried  gable-saw 
Of  Santa  Croce  nests  my  dewy  lark, 

1085  My  one  lone  birdling  with  a  trill  in  flower. 
It  harps  my  heart-strings.    Santo  Spirito 
Across  the  river  gropes  into  his  own, 
Serene  and  spacious  tho'  fragmental  still. 
And  San  Lorenzo,  yet  a  king  uncrowned ! 

1090  All,  all  unfinisht;  e'en  my  palaces, 

That  came  too  late,  late  autumn's  bounty  scant, 
To  set  their  fruit  ere  niggard-nipping  frost  — 
Children  of  chilled  loins  that  must  be  riped 
Orphans  on  wind-blown  leafless  branches.    All, 

1095  All,  all  are  poniards  in  me. 

Ah,  but  most— 

More  than  mine  own,  deep  biters  as  they  be  — 
Rankles  that  smooth-faced  house  of  Cosimo, 
Dark-veiled  this  steep  noon,  usurping  where 

1 1  oo  By  right  my  sun-bright  portent  should  have  shone 


NOON 

But  for  one  highwayman.   With  shrewdest  steel 
Of  smug  and  smiling  treachery  my  friend, 
Smug  smiling  Michelozzo,  reacht  me  once 
Full  in  the  back  when  I  mistook  him  for 

1105  My  armed  support,  my  friend  as  yours,  and  one 
Of  our  close  circle.    Him  upon  my  knee 
I  'd  dandled,  fed  good  pap  of  artistry, 
Bred  form  and  feature  to,  and  to  the  world 
Issued,  stampt  sound  and  skilful.    You  recall 

1 1 10  How  he  was  with  us  ever  on  the  works 
Hanging  upon  our  words;  not  venturesome 
To  have  his  say,  as  having  naught  to  speak, 
But  drinking  ever  from  your  cup  and  mine 
And  cameling  for  use  in  desert  thirsts. 

1115  Not  without  talent  —  oh,  I  grant  you  that — 
A  gift  for  gathering  and  storing  up 
Of  all  that  might  contribute  to  his  end 
Of  making  good,  will-nilly,  with  the  world ! 
A  skilled  manipulator,  subtly  framed 

1 1 20  To  pouch  the  game, —  the  more  that  him  no  pains 
Preoccupy  with  the  beyond  of  deed, 
Its  furthermost  significance  and  range. 
He's  no  creative  mind,  that  leaps  forthright 
Beyond  the  oiled  smoothness  of  the  known, 

1125  The  safe,  the  rutted  road,  to  regions  far, 

49 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Incalculable,  challenging,  where  firsts, 
Firsts  only  among  minds,  dare  venture.    No! 
Essential  seconds  are  his  kind,  who  sift 
What  betters  ravish  from  the  void,  and  do 
1130  In  shelter  of  past  judgments  what  the  firsts 
Conceive,  attempt,  but  fail  to  bring  to  end 
Because  they  stumble  up  untrodden  paths. 

Look  there !  —  and  there !    My  Pitti's  tortoise-walls 
That  creep  to  being  —  and  his  Medici! 

1135  His  sudden  palace  rubbing-of-the-lamp 
Hath  safe  the  plaudits  of  our  yesterdays ; 
My  plodder  shall  go  far  —  tomorrow's  praise 
May  make  his  pillow  easy.    And  tho'  now 
For  years  his  house  hath  harbored  Medici 

1140  And  Pitti  frets  to  see  his  pile  not  rooft, 
Yet  Medici  is  Pitti's  get.  'Twas  I 
That  set  the  pace  of  pride  for  Cosimo 
He  dared  not  venture ;  far  too  bold,  it  seems, 
For  craven  times  and  hearts;  but  from  the  loins 

1145  Of  my  great  fancy  sprang  my  rival's  thought, 
Tempered;  and  temperate,  and  fitting  home 
To  commonplace  of  life,  unriskful.    Mine  — 
The  motive  Medici  had  spurned,  rewrought 
In  power  for  Pitti  ( stript,  alack,  of  all 

50 


NOON 

1150  Its  carven  joy  of  gorgeous  heraldry)  — 
There,  late,  too  late,  it  rises;  but  a  torse, 
Yet  of  a  god!    It  hath  such  bravery 
Of  bigness  and  proportion  as  the  Torse, 
Compact  of  vigorous  antiquity, 

1155  Digged  from  Colonna's  garden  t'other  day, 
That  makes  Rome  very  Greece  for  majesty. 
I  hapt  in  Rome  then  at  the  Pope's  behest, 
And  with  these  very  eyes  beheld  rebirth, 
From  its  forgotten  grave,  of  marble  Awe. 

1 1 60  Thence  I  got  word  of  greatness  for  the  task 
Of  princely  housing  holding  then  my  hand. 
You'll  see  the  Torse's  bigness  in  that  work. 

But  'twas  before  the  hour  of  fate  was  ripe. 
He  wanted  no  cathedral  for  his  house  — 

1165  Not  Cosimo!  'Twas  so  he  put  me  down 
When  I  before  his  dazzled  eyes  deployed, 
In  rhythmic  pomp  of  prideful  blazonry, 
The  plastical  presentment  of  the  wish 
That  trumpt  to  empire  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 

1170  Yet  craftily  o'erwrought  and  smothered  deep 
'Neath  padded  coverture  of  humbleness, 
That  thence  no  cry  from  vibrant  throats  outbreathe 
To  waken  up  the  people's  first  alarm. 


BRUNELLESCHI 

As  when  ere  some  great  rite  deep  silence  broods 

1175  O'er  the  awed  rapture  of  a  twilight  throng, 
And  every  heart  halts  breathless  for  a  sound 
To  thrill  the  expectant  emptiness;  beyond, 
Beyond  the  pulsate  smother  of  sealed  door 
Beyond  sealed  door,  dumb  room  beyond  dumb  room, 

1 1 80  The  silken- trained  processional  prepares, 
And  lifts  the  lisping  of  the  quire  divine, 
Itself  its  song's  sole  audience:  so  I  knew, 
Beyond  the  unbroke  seals  of  Cosimo 
His  mind,  and  still  within  his  outward  front 

1185  So  modest — nay,  so  mean  —  the  paean  proud 
That  murmurous  prepared  a  future  shout, 
Ominous  kin  to  clank.    Intuitive 
I,  artist,  saw  (with  eyes  which  on  worn  knees 
Searcht  inward,  pricking  ear  for  that  the  drum 

1 1 90  Trembled  not  yet  with )  what  must  be,  one  day, 
The  shame  of  our  evolving  history 
Not  yet  in  being,  and  the  coiled  spring 
Of  his  heart  and  of  Florence's.    That  spring 
I  made  the  motive  of  the  majesty 

1195  I  clothed  his  habitation  stiff  withal, 

Like  cloth-of-gold  ashimmer,  rich  impearled — 
Symbol  of  sovranty,  the  mask  and  show 
Of  inward  quicks  he  dared  not  yet  to  face 


NOON 

Or  venture  forth  upon;  which  he  knew  not, 
1 200  Perchance,  stretcht  treacherous  as  morning  glass, 

Tempting  steeled  feet  o'er  thinness.    My  device, 

My  rich  imagined  house  interpretive, 

Flasht  mirror-wise  his  hidden  longing's  face 

On  his  shockt  consciousness. 
1205  "No!  No!"  he  cried, 

"Not  such  thoughts  in  my  inmost  being  live  — 

All  innocent  of  rule  am  I  at  heart ! 

Or  if  there  spring,  deep  down,  a  seed  of  lust 

For  princehood,  still  that  shoot  must  screen  its  push 
1 2 10  To  life,  lest  Florence  ravish  my  safe  place 

Of  treasure,  and  my  stirps  do  deathward.    No ! 

Enough,  that  what  of  power  I  have,  I  have 

All  unannounced  — the  substance,  not  the  face. 

The  face  hath  force  to  quench  young  power's  fount 
1 2 1 5  As  Gorgon  froze  hope's  life-blood.    Palaces 

Speak  loud;  I  merely  want  a  whispered  tale 

Of  merchant  modesty." 

A  whispered  tale! 

Ye  gods!  And  'twas  for  me  to  breathe  in  stone, 
1 2 20 "This  man  is  but  a  townsman  like  us  all — 

There  is  no  harm  in  him — see  but  this  mask  — 

Only  a  modest  trader." 

Artistry, 

53 


BRUNELLESCHI 

The  soul  behind  my  house  interpretive, 

1225  Betrayed  itself  so ! 

Character,  not  lies, 

Is  my  art !    Inner  springs  of  consciousness 
And  seedlings  of  futurity  that  grope 
Beneath  thick-heaped  strata  of  old  Adam 

1 230  In  crannied  rocks  of  selfhood,  unsuspedl, 
'Tis  the  prime  task  o'  th'  architect  to  voice 
As  of  the  portraitist.  Who  cares  to  show 
But  the  dry  husking  of  his  subject's  soul, 
And  surface  scorings,  is  far  kin  of  him 

1235  Who  makes  but  to  interpret. 

Centuries 

Of  senseless  aping  of  the  north  —  in  forms 
Our  sunshine  ne'er  claspt  hands  with,  and  whose  tongue 
Our  tongues  took  hardly  — had  seared  up,  the  while 

1 240  Thro'  the  long  dark  the  southland  slept,  men's  sense 
Of  the  organic  framework  of  all  art, 
And  most  of  mine,  the  builder's.    Cosimo 
Spake  Florence  truly  when  he  askt  for  lies, 
Asking  for  art  for  cover.    But  you  know  — 

1245  None  better,  Donatello  —  very  truth, 

Naught  else,  truth  integral  and  poignant  'tis 
That  lifts  art  out  of  earthiness  on  wings 
That  fan  the  empyrean.    And  'twas  truth, 

54 


NOON 

Divined  by  intuitions  all  divine, 

1 250  That  Cosimo'd  have  none  of. 

Bottom- wrought — 
As  only  he  who  dares  behold  a  soul 
Face  outward  and  to  grapple  home  with  it 
Can  be  wrought  to  despisal  of  the  craven 

1255  Who  safe  behind  accrete  soul-fences  still, 
Perforce  of  custom,  will  ensconce  himself 
And  smile  content  with  surfacing —I  sneered, 
"Not  art  then  'tis  you  want,  but  subtlety  — 
Which  is  a  kinder  word  for  lying ! " 

1260  He, 

Whose  wont  you  know  was  flabby  white,  like  worms 
You  startle  fatly  lurking  under  stones, 
Flamed  fire-bright  at  such  touching;  but  cold  steel 
From  his  eyes'  scabbard  flasht,  and  flesht  me  sharp, 

1265  Home  to  the  hilt.    "Your  subtleties,"  he  hissed, 
"  Be  for  your  subtleness,  that  peeps  behind 
The  decencies  indecently.    Have  done! 
True  art  gives  cover;  'tis  false  art  betrays, 
False  to  the  purposes  behind  the  veil. 

1270  All  life  is  built  by  veiling." 

There  it  was  — 

The  secret  of  his  potence,  the  crass  warp 
Wherethro'  slid  swift  the  shuttle  of  his  mind, 

55 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Weaving  the  patterned  fabric  of  deceit 

1275  To  cloak  his  crescence! 

Mad  with  rage,  deep  stung 
By  th'  spiteful  venom  of  his  touchiness, 
I  crasht  my  clenched  fist  thro'  the  frail  thing 
So  many  months  of  hotfoot  toil  had  reared, 

1280  And  crusht  its  fragile  framework  into  naught— 
The  apple  of  my  eye,  for  from  the  deeps 
And  hidden  places  of  my  second  sight 
It  had  sprung  forth,  the  childing  of  the  void 
Impregnate  of  my  will  in  potency 

1285  Prophetic! 

See  yon  smugness  there  below — 
Milder  and  harmlesser  than  aught  the  town 
Can  show  else,  for  the  front  of  family 
Or  pride  or  power !    Oh,  very  meek  and  smooth 

1 290  It  sits  and  sits  sweet  smiling  by  the  way, 

And  hawks  its  heart  to  the  road's  beckoning, 

Unnotably  pretentious;  notablest 

In  all  the  town  for  pretense,  notablest 

As  coadjutor  of  the  game  he  plays, 

1295  Its  shy,  suave  owner,  to  make  good  the  hold 
That  even  now  grows  subtler  and  more  sure 
On  the  concupiscence  of  Florence ! 

God! 

56 


NOON 

At  that  self  instant  when  my  talons  tore 
1 300  The  vitals  from  my  Titan,  underneath 
A  scarlet  hood  alongside  hid,  approved, 
The  model  that  had  won  his  heart,  the  whore 
He  chose  to  house  him  —  Michelozzo's  lie, 
Bastardly  spawn  of  kingly  seed  of  mine 
1305  He'd  watcht  put  forth  when  oft  and  oft  again 
He  came  to  greet  me  friendly.    Oh,  you  know 
How  I  despised  to  hoard  my  secret;  how 
I  stood  to  publish  my  full  power  abroad 
For  the  world's  weal,  in  over-proud  contempt, 
1310  Mayhap,  of  selfish  pride  —  proud  pridelessness 
That  hath  undone  me,  fool  of  proudest  pride ! 

But  silence,  proud  Filippo !    Hold  thy  tongue, 
Lest  rage  bewray  thy  inward  ravenings! 
Those  be  old  ulcers  cleansed  by  kinder  years. 

1315  In  this  keen  upward  of  thin  April  air 

From  whence  the  boundless  ranging  of  the  eye 
Sights  large  the  checkered  telltale  of  the  town, 
And,  seeing  whole,  yet  sees  in  sharp  detail 
The  open  riddles  of  its  skyward  face 

1320  (For  towns,  like  men,  ope  heart  but  to  the  blue), 
Now,  in  aloofness  of  long-cooled  thought 
Freshened  with  friendship  for  that  subtle  hand 

57 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Which,  while  it  worms  to  maw  what  I  would  not 
It  ere  get  hold  on,  knows  to  bright  bright  gold, 

1325  And  gladden  ancient  Florence  with  young  zest— 
I  see  us,  Cosimo  and  me,  two  types 
Of  onwardness,  which,  meeting  in  the  lists 
Of  life,  encounter —  doughty  champions,  both, 
Of  selfsame  hosts  of  conquest;  'gainst  the  world 

1330  When  pitted,  single  for  advance;  yet,  coped 
In  the  blind  melee  of  the  jousting-field, 
At  odds  most  rashly.    I  can  see  his  art  — 
The  art  that  comfort  gives — a  subtle  thing 
Of  silk-soft  tread,  whose  suave  amenity 

*335  Sweetens  and  riches  being,  brothers  man 

And  clothes  his  consciousness  with  textiles  fine 
That  fleece  his  nest  with  velvet.    His  the  task 
To  skirmish  far  afield  and  commandeer 
All  Capuan  luxuries  for  the  long  campaign  — 

1 340  With  risk  of  Capuan  looseness.    Cosimo 

Hath  made  our  Florence  sweeter  on  the  tooth 
And  softer  under  bone;  I  thank  him  for't, 
And  for  his  friendly  hand,  forgetting  soon 
My  sooner  trespass.    But  I  know  that  art  — 

1 345  Our  art,  which  is  a  thing  of  mastery  — 

Strikes  deeper  than  the  surface,  rounds  a  range 
Vaster  than  scout-purveyors  of  earth-sweets 

58 


NOON 

Ere  dreamed  of  searching,  and  proves  good  its  claim 
To  larger  regions  of  the  soul  than  they 

1350  Can  compass  in  their  vastest  views.    I  know 
Great  art  full-panoplied  for  war,  and  armed 
With  the  bright  glaive  of  light.    Not  love  she  bears 
But  that  sharp  sword  which  leaps  to  the  deep  heart 
Of  things,  and  outs  love's  secrets ;  forges  on 

1355  Into  the  vast  unknown  and  cleaves  a  way 
Thro'  grewsome  forest  and  o'er  desert  wild 
Unto  the  hold  creational,  whence  spring 
The  founts  of  being,  one  with  Him  who  wields 
The  wand  supernal.   As  the  Master  saith, 

1 360  "Think  not  that  I  am  come  to  send  peace  on  earth: 
I  came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword," 
So  enters  the  Eternal  into  man, 
Whether  He  come  as  Christ  into  the  world 
To  ransom  heart-stuff  from  assault  of  sin, 

1365  Or  come  as  force  creative,  to  redeem 

The  promise  of  man's  conscience,  to  lay  low 
The  beast  of  grossness,  and  to  raise  up  heads 
That  slumber  till  His  coming  —  to  raise  up 
Heights  that  shall  look  upon  His  face  and  shine 

1370  Bright  beacons  to  the  hindmost. 

These  be  all 
Divine,  inexplicable  mysteries. 

59 


BRUNELLESCHI 

You  know,  my  friends,  we  be  but  instruments, 
No  more,  we  artists ;  blades  whose  tempered  steel 

1375  Life  sharpens  to  swift  practice,  grinding  down 
Their  native  roughness  to  such  razor-edge 
As  slips  'twixt  life  and  death,  'twixt  false  and  true. 
God !  and  when  hearts  are  rubbed  thus,  who  shall  say 
The  anguish  of  that  sharping  ?    None  may  guess 

1 3  80  Their  midnights,  their  beseechings,  their  revolts, 
Their  up-in-arms  against  the  law  of  life 
That  grips  them  fast  to  loathe  and  to  delight 
In  one  same  ad:,  of  making  and  destroying, 
Of  striking  to  the  bottom  to  lay  ope 

1385  The  sores  and  grafts  of  life  (oh,  horrid  tasks 
Of  swift  red  lopping!),  to  the  very  bone 
Slashing  the  growth  convention,  to  the  rock 
Clearing  debris  of  ages,  so  to  rear 
A  fairer  fane  of  beauty  which  shall  tower, 

1390  A  city  on  a  hill,  that  men  shall  know 
O'er  stretcht-out  plains  of  generations,  fair 
As  moon-kissed  alabaster  'gainst  the  night  — 
A  pinnacled,  spiring  splendor's  mystic  web 
Of  lucent  chiseling ! 

1395  O  Christ,  how  fine 

Are  these,  Thy  instruments  of  making,  ground 
Betwixt  the  upper  and  the  lower  —  blades 

60 


NOON 

Thou  sharpenest,  or  grains  (I  know  not  which) 
Of  corn  Thou  bruisest  into  snowy  dust 

1400  To  feed  the  generations  —  fertilized 

Thro'  bruising's  death  to  mystic  fruit  of  life ! 

My  figures  melt  like  rivers  in  a  sea 

Of  light  ashimmer  in  a  rich  mirage 

That  lures  us  on  across  life's  boundless  sands 

1405  To  Edens  endlessly  removed. 

No  more ! 

Now  to  those  hands  that  wait  to  know  my  hest, 
This  hour  of  mine  atop  flies  on  apace. 


61 


BRUNELLESCHI 

PART  III  — EVENING 

TIME  :  Sunset  and  dusk  of  the  same  day. 

SCENE  :  The  slopes  below  San  Miniato,  overlooking  Florence. 

PERSONS  :  Brunelleschi  and  Donatella. 

Brunelleschi  speaks. 


T, 


HINE  arm,  Donate,  up  these  cypress  glooms. 
Tide  thou  me  o'er  this  deep  sward,  blanchly  sprayed 
And  fresh  with  breathing  fragrance;  up  the  swell 
To  the  sheened  harborage  of  sunset-spilth 
Oozing  from  cloud-cliff  ledges  of  the  west 
To  yon  bronze  pond  of  even,  cypress-walled. 

1415  Fragile  as  fingers  phantom-thin,  those  spires 
Of  dun  grove-sancluaries  lean  aloft 
And  answer  the  lush  zephyrs'  buoyancy, 
More  sensitive  than  seaweeds  to  the  deep's 
Inconstant  instance.    Beckon  they  to  eve's 

1420  Pale  primrose  leagues  of  lucence,  "  Hitherward, 
In  waters  of  submerging  ecstasy 
Transfused,  pour  down,  baptize,  anoint  us,  one 
With  everlasting,  glorious  farewells ! " 

63 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Or  reads  my  heart  its  conscience  into  theirs, 

1425  That  thus  I  voice  them?    Sunset  and  Farewell  — 
They  walk  companionly  the  shadowy  aisles 
Of  my  heart's  cloister,  silent  of  today, 
Reverberant  alone  of  bygone  things, 
In  memory.  .  .  . 

1430  In  memory,  O  Gift— 

O  bounteous  gift,  not  niggard  as  men  say, 
Calling  thee  Donatello  —  memory 
Of  thee  and  of  thinfe  ancient  giving !    This, 
Thine  arm  that  crutcheth  me,  upbears  in  sooth 

1435  My  heavy  spirit  more  than  earthly  weight. 

Thou  so  hast  ever  done;  I  thank  thee.  Words  — 
What  be  they  when  the  heart  is  full?  Wan  shapes 
That  swoon  unrecognizable  beneath 
The  flood  of  feeling,  not  to  be  reclaimed ! 

1440  And  words,  to  me,  thou  know'st,  have  ever  been 
But  exercise  of  torture,  tearing  way 
From  sealed  treasure-chambers  of  my  soul 
In  torment;  for  my  natal  tongue  —  and  thine  — 
Is  one  of  forms,  of  symbols  of  no  sound, 

1445  That  discourse  hold  not  with  the  gossip  ear 
But  with  the  eye,  and  thro'  the  plastic  sense, 
Touch  in  imagination.    Pardon  thou 
My  want  of  wordy- wise  conveyancing ; 

64 


EVENING 

My  heart's  estates  are  thine  inheritance 

1450  By  right  unwrit.  Thou'st  known  to  read  my  thought, 
My  deep's  emotion,  in  the  printless  page 
Of  wall  and  bastion,  colonnade  and  tower, 
And  ( fullest  witness  of  my  soul's  desire ) 
My  Dome's  immortal  palimpsest  of  love. 

1455  Corporate  art  thou  in  that  perfe&ness. 
Its  resolute  assurance,  pausing  yet 
This  side  of  self-sufficiency ;  its  swift 
Abandon,  which  a  delicate  restraint 
Reins  in  from  recklessness;  its  vital  verve, 

1460  Whose  breezy  freshness  gentle  manners  make 
Kindly  demure  — these  are  thy  gifts  to  it, 
In  that  thou  gavest  me  thy  love  to  keep, 
And,  keeping,  I  imbibed  it  till  my  soul 
Knew  not  the  metes  betwixt  its  own  and  thine, 

1465  Drowned  in  affection's  flood-tide.    I  know  not 
How  makers  can  mature  in  isolate 
And  self-sufficing  ownness.    Nay,  methinks 
Such  beings  be  not  as  can  mount  alone, 
Amid  the  threat  and  scuffle  of  the  world, 

1470  Up  gateways  of  the  day.    Companionship  — 
In  ends  akin,  in  pace  along  the  road, 
In  tongue,  in  taste  — is  needful  to  the  task. 
I,  whom  our  Florentines  count  loneliest, 

65 


BRUNELLESCHI 

How  have  I  been  befriended!    Never  else 
1475  Had  I  been  borne  to  take  the  onward  wave 
And  win  toward  harbor — harbor  never  yet 
Man  might  attain  to,  ere  the  falling  night. 

Night  falls  apace.    More  stoutly  up  these  glooms 
Speed  ye,  my  cloddy  footsteps,  to  the  space 

1480  Whence  are  these  shadows  washt,  whence  o'er  the  vale 
Mine  eyes  may  plane  as  on  a  level  wing. 
Once  more  —  as  God  looks  down  upon  His  world, 
The  handiwork  He  loves  so  well  His  eye 
Parts  never  from  it — I  must  gaze  upon 

1485  My  masterwork  adown  these  heights  removed. 

Now  glimmers  west-washt  silver  forth  the  bronze 
Of  dwindling  cypresses  —  the  dais'd  shrine 
Of  far  San  Miniato,  regent  hoar, 
Unquestioned,  on  the  headland  of  the  hills 
1490  Up-throned  high,  whom  prostrate  valleys  yield 
Sweeping  obeisance  unto.    Pearly  dews 
Now  drench  and  sanctify  that  saintly  front 
With  kisses  of  wan  even.    Lo,  the  flush 
Which  blooms  his  ancience  at  the  pure  salute! 

1495  How  oft  in  days  agone  have  I  toiled  up 

66 


EVENING 

These  highlands  in  saint  pilgrimage  to  learn 
The  lessons  of  yon  ancient !    Thence  the  lead 
I  followed  — far,  far  off— when  Cosimo 
Gave  me  to  build  anew  the  rotting  fane 

1 500  Of  San  Lorenzo.    Santo  Spirito 

As  well  is  of  his  blood,  and  proudest  prince 
Of  that  great  strain.    Recall,  Donato,  hours 
We  friended  o'er  these  hills  and  dreamed  the  day 
When  Florence  should  awake  and  know  us  hers! 

1505  E'en  then,  before  I  knew  me  architect, 
I  glimpsed  the  perfecting  of  motives  yet 
Inchoate  or  abortive  in  the  frame 
Of  sire  San  Miniato.    After-years  — 
When  I  at  length  had  crossed  my  Rubicon, 

1510  Campaigning  Romeward— fixt  those  motives'  fate, 
When  you  and  I  ranged  over  the  seven  hills 
Mid  churches  of  the  early  faith ;  for  then 
I  knew  San  Miniato  for  the  van 
Of  the  far-purposed  army  of  true  type, 

1515  Outpost  of  sane  tradition.    Mindest  thou 
The  vineyard-height  of  the  hill  Aventine, 
How  o'er  the  brink  it  beetles  of  the  swirl 
Of  ochre  Tiber  ?    On  its  brow,  afar 
And  lonely  from  now  haunts  of  men— sole  rest, 

1520  Or  well  nigh,  of  the  teeming  hordes  that  erst 

67 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Peopled  its  slopes  with  proletariate  — 

Upon  the  brow  of  Aventine  is  set 

Rome's  clearest  witness  of  the  morn  devout 

Whence  rays  our  day  of  Christdom :  humblemost 

1525  Santa  Sabina.    There  I  felt  my  heart 

Touched  to  its  deepest  sense  of  simpleness 
And  childly  trust.    By  beauties  unobscured 
Which  glorify  the  shrines  of  loftier  saints, 
That  house  of  quietness  makes  room  for  prayer 

1530  Spontaneous,  uncompulsed  of  all  spur 
Of  splendor  or  of  poignance  figurate. 
Its  very  bareness  breeds  a  broader  faith. 
Its  rudeness  links  one  with  the  Manger-born, 
Its  pureness  with  His  sacring.    Sacrifice 

1535  Is  writ  upon  its  gates,  in  freighted  cross 

First-fruit  exemplar  from  the  sculptor's  tool 
In  that  rash  kind.   ("Take  thou  a  bit  of  wood 
And  fashion  me  that  Agony ! "  recall'st, 

0  Donatello?)   Me  that  grandeur  took 
1 540  Of  self  sincerity,  and  on  a  day 

1  wrought  thereafter. 

Too  much,  thinkest  thou, 
I  prate  of  bygones  ?  too  much  base  my  mind 
On  olden  wont?   Thy  hand  hath  found  a  means 
1 545  To  work  its  way  unhampered,  tho'  thine  art 

68 


EVENING 

Drew  milk  from  ancient  udders,  as  mine  own. 
Yet  but  bethink  thee!    Sculpture  deals  with  man, 
Life's  great  convention,  ever  help  at  hand 
And  scapeless  even  wouldst  thou  scape  its  prop; 

1550  Limning,  not  less  so.    But  we  architects 
Handle  imagined  forms,  by  architects 
Created,  our  forerunners — timeless  kin, 
Voiceless  yet  partners  of  the  compact.    Ours 
Convention  with  gone  fellows,  whose  built  words 

1555  Gain  usufruct  of  meaning  in  the  mouths 
Of  thriftful  generations.    Therefore  art 
In  my  kind  is  antiquity  re-youthed, 
New-furbisht  fresher  for  its  anciency. 
I  reverence  the  past  as  thou,  Donate, 

1560  Worship's!  fine  human  figure,  as  the  type 
Whence  thou  derivest  freedom  to  essay 
Outward  in  realms  thine  only;  scrupulous 
To  guard  essential  likeness  to  the  kind 
On  pain  of  losing  truth  in  license. 

1565  Ha! 

Behold!    Once  from  the  shades  enfranchised,  bursts 
A  universal  glamour  of  doomed  day ! 
Tho'  thou  art  fled,  O  Lucence,  tarrieth 
The  spirit  of  thy  splendor,  nebulous 

1 570  Out  airy  vasts  of  scintillance.    Unbound, 

69 


BRUNELLESCHI 

The  rich  ambrosian  tresses  of  the  orb 
Departed,  riot-streaming,  swathe  the  void 
Abyss  illimitable  of  the  heavens  — 
Auroral  aura  of  Divinity ! 

1575  On  fiery  front  of  Godhead  Sinai  gazed 

Sole  scatheless;  us  'tis  now  vouchsafed  to  glimpse 
In  rapture  Godhead's  radiant  aureole, 
That  whelms  eve's  desert  welkin  with  flood-flame 
Out-glorying  Apollo!    Ne'er  was  sight 

158080  dazzling  with  long-dalliant  gorgeousness' 
Loose-lapsing  tendrils  and  out-shredded  films 
Of  dissipate  liquescent  fire,  as  now 
Zeniths  Val  d'  Arno,  sheer-o'erleaping ! 

Oh,     . 

1585  How  is  Thy  greatness  magnified,  O  Lord, 
By  this  adumbrance  of  Thy  majesty ! 
The  day  hath  left  but  trails  impalpable 
Of  the  supernal  progress ;  yet  the  cheek 
Blanches  and  pricks  with  chill  of  awed  surmise, 

1 5 90  The  heart  leaps  up  and  halts  in  ecstasy 

At  but  this  pale  remembrance  of  day's  loss, 
As  'twere  faint  fragrance  of  an  hour  forgot 
Wafted  adown  the  airy  aisles  of  dreamland. 

Lo,  and  the  vale !    Outspread  beneath  the  cope 

70 


EVENING 

1595  Of  skiey  conflagration,  how  is  it 

Beholden  to  that  glory,  counter-tincT: 

Responsive  to  candescent  radiance 

And  steept  in  variant  empery  of  hues 

That  clothe  the  footstool  of  the  purple  throne 
1 600  With  throneful  splendor !    On  the  velvet  breast 

Of  earth's  unearthly  beauty  flames  one  gem, 

Up-founting  in  distinction  moltenly 

And  catching  sky-fire  on  its  sole-bright  brow. 

0  Dome  that  art  my  skiey  part  and  whole 
1605  Of  my  sky-yearning,  now  hath  fallen  on  thee 

The  sanctifying  ray  of  Heaven  and  bred 
Transcendence  in  thee  —  this  my  heart  a  clod 
That  hath  brought  forth  a  cloud  of  glory ! 

Friend, 

1610  Dear  friend,  this  fusion  of  the  world  with  heaven 
Melteth  old  hatred  to  a  shamed  thing. 
My  Child  hath  found  the  glamour  of  the  sky 
And  shines  redeemed;  the  eleventh  hour 
Hath  overtaken  my  harsh-heartedness. 

1615  It  shall  not  be  so.    Take  my  testament: 

My  Child,  that  I  have  borne  and  given  suck, 

And  brought  most- way  to  manhood — yea,  my  Dome 

1  do  bequeath  it  to  mine  enemy, 
Whom  I  have  hated.    He  will  cherish  it. 

71 


BRUNELLESCHI 

1620  I  know  him,  and  have  hated  him  the  more 
For  that  I  knew  him  all  unhateable: 
Weak  once  and  human,  merely  — Michelozzo. 
I  cannot  climb  to  Him  who  on  the  rock 
Of  weakness  full-forgiven  set  His  throne, 

1625  Unless  unfardeled  of  that  hating.  .  .  . 

Gone! 

E'en  as  we  wonder — gone!  As  memory 
Evades  reluctant,  like  a  breathed-on  flame, 
And  into  darkness  wavers  and  withdraws — 

1630  As  young  men's  visions  fade  to  old  men's  dreams  - 
The  day's  last  lingering  splendor  now  dissolves 
Into  dim  eve's  phantasmal  loveliness. 

So  hath  my  wick  gone  out.    My  day  of  toil, 
Donato,  it  is  done.    Remaineth  naught 

1635  Of  the  long  road  of  frustrate  dreams. 

Shall  dawn 

Yet  e'er  revolve  and  up  the  painted  east 
Shoot  splendor?  We  have  felt  these  eager  years 
The  dawning  of  a  loveliness.    But  night 

1640  Draws  close  about  us,  and  its  touch  is  cold 

Upon  my  brow.    Mine  eyes  are  dark.    My  hand 

Bridles  no  longer  to  his  wonted  toil. 

And  yet  this  heart  will  not  be  daunted!  Thou, 

72 


EVENING 

Who  hast  the  secret  of  the  secret  things 

1645  Divined  in  the  organic  principle 
Of  character  in  beauty — thou,  and  I 
Who  have  groped  with  thee  up  toward  Beauty's  shrine 
And  laid  upon  her  altar  all  I  am  — 
We  may  not  doubt  the  passing  of  this  dark. 

1 650  Too  deep  in  the  essential  core  of  life 
Is  beauty  planted  to  be  rooted  out 
And  cast  upon  the  sateless  fires  of  time. 
If  branch  be  lopt,  yet  shall  new  shoots  put  forth, 
More  manifold,  more  strengthened  for  the  knife. 

1655  So  we  have  grown  with  lopping,  well  thou  know'st— 
Purged  by  adversity,  and  circumcised 
In  spirit  by  affliction.    The  heart  needs 
Some  slashing  for  the  perfect  fruit. 

These  years 

1660  That  have  lookt  forward  to  a  dawning  sweet, 
Upon  my  tongue  they  have  been  bitter.    Oh, 
I  drained  the  cup  of  scorn  in  those  old  days 
When  laughter  and  detraction  followed  me 
From  fangful  packs  of  snarlers,  e'er  and  aye 

1665  Thro'  damned  years  of  effort  to  my  end  — 
My  end  that  more  was  Florence's.    That  cup, 
So  long  since  drunken  to  the  nauseous  dregs, 
Hath  venomed  something  at  my  inmost  source 

73 


BRUNELLESCHI 

And  sent  me  tainted  down  the  hill,  attaint 

1670  With  pungence  and  acerbity  where  else 
Had  run  but  sweetness  and  a  madcap  rill 
Of  hurtless  laughter.    Tainted  streams  (what  else?) 
Should  flow  from  that  outrageous  prisonment 
Which  gnarled  my  joints  with  agues,  rheums,  and  blains, 

1675  And  shrouded  visioned  eyes  with  fetid  damps, 
Because,  forsooth,  assurance  I  had  gained 
At  last  to  make  my  point  against  the  throng; 
Because,  forsooth,  no  Builders'  Guilder  I, 
Tho'  I  was  building  what  their  Builders'  Guild 

1 680  Knew  naught  of  nor  could  compass !    Kindly  milk 
Flows  not  from  acrid  foster-dugs,  as  figs 
Grow  not  on  thistles.    From  my  jailing  gusht 
The  spring  of  poisoned  arrows  into  rime 
That  seared  thick  skins  as  acid  bites  crude  dross. 

1685  Ah,  God  forgive  my  rancor!    I  am  he 

That  is  so  crusht  by  wrong  that  lust  bursts  out 
For  vengeance  on  the  wronger  —  and  the  years, 
Upon  my  tongue  they  have  been  bitter. 

Nay, 

1 690  Sweet  wormwood,  surely,  since  I've  had  thy  faith 
To  balm  the  sore  that  healeth  last  of  all. 
And  then,  as  core  and  substance  of  my  life, 
I've  had  a  task  immortal.  None  may  say 

74 


EVENING 

The  life  is  bitter  which  hath  held  two  bests 

1695  God  to  Himself  hath  appanaged — to  love 
And  to  create;   two  bests  that  be  but  one, 
For  at  the  last  to  love  is  to  create. 
And  to  create?  What  is  it  but  to  love? 
In  irised  indistinctness  all  their  lines 

1 700  Swim  mystical  about  the  void  of  night, 
Merging  in  one  thro'  manifest  diverse. 
Yea,  I  have  loved  the  love  of  loneliness, 
Out-yearning  worldwards  in  default  of  love 
To  pour  my  manhood  unto,  all  my  man 

1705  Making  for  making.    From  my  loins  have  leapt 
A  progeny  of  vital  creatures  —  thoughts 
That  I  have  builded  into  loveliness, 
Which,  once  brought  forth,  have  life  intrinsical. 
Those  children  of  the  generative  mind, 

1710  We  know  not  whither  they  may  take  their  way, 

Why  live,  where  house,  whom  spouse,  how  procreate, 
When  shuffle  off;  scarce  launcht,  self-masters.  Would 
I  might  foreknow  what  time  doth  keep  for  them, 
Those  offspring  mine!   Will  they  be  fruitful  seed?  .  . 

1715  Apace  the  dusk  advances  into  gloom. 

While  we  have  watcht,  adown  the  darkening  slopes 
The  day  hath  drained  in  a  steady  stream, 

75 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Withdrawing  stealthily  thro*  cypress  isles 
Uplift  from  forth  its  current.    Now  the  flood 

1720  Of  tardy-truant  laggard  light  hath  dropt 
And  leveled,  gathered  in  the  serpenting 
Pearl-silver  pool  of  Arno.    Only  there 
All  radiant  wanderers  have  rendezvous' d 
In  glassy  splendor.    Out  into  the  west 

1725  Light  lies  and  languishes  in  liquid  sleep. 

O  peachblow  bloom  of  Florence !  '  How  thy  heart 
Is  mirrored  in  that  lambence,  which  flows  on 
Into  unwot-of  realms  of  the  west's  day, 
Revolving  evermore!    Thy  soul  hath  burst 

1 7 30  And  burgeoned  riotously  on  the  brave 

Meander-margents  of  this  westward  stream, 
As  'twere  the  stem  of  time  and  thou  the  bloom 
That  glads  its  nakedness.  Well  they  thee  called 
Who  from  the  lavish  garden  of  all  tongues 

1735  Sought  out  the  richest  treasuries,  bee-wise, 
And  culled  the  deathless  honey  of  thy  name. 
Thy  soul  is  one  with  loveliness,  thy  name 
But  one  with  that  it  nameth  —  gentle  breath 
That  wafts  the  sweetness  of  all  blossoming 

1 740  Aboon  the  dusty  wayside. 

Florentine ! 

76 


EVENING 

How  sing  the  heart-strings  to  the  kindling  warmth 
Of  that  flute-call's  full  music !    Florentine ! 
'Tis  thou  and  I,  Donate,  summoneth 

1 745  That  blossom-soft,  high  clarion ;  and  he 

Whose  name  — akin  to  thine,  the  giving-one  — 
Is  as  a  pearl  of  price,  whose  form  is  lost 
In  dissolution  in  the  noble  grape 
Of "  Florentine,"  so  one  leap  o'er  our  lips 

1 7 50  That  living  name  and  Dante's!    Thence  'tis  ours 
To  be  the  fellows  of  immortal  song, 
And  to  breathe  in  song's  vital  spirit.    He, 
Who  wove  the  garden-sweetness  of  all  love 
Into  one  awsome  triune  universe 

1755  Of  everlasting  being,  hath  laid  hand 

Upon  our  brows  who  spring  from  selfsame  soil, 
And  breathed  into  our  mere  mortality 
A  breath  immortal.    Ours  to  live  and  die 
More  greatly  for  his  greatness,  and  more  sweet 

1760  For  that  his  fragrance  hath  embosomed  sense 
In  spirit  largeness. 

O  thou  Florentine! 
Essential,  adjunct,  and  epitome — 
Stem,  branch,  and  blossom— of  our  consciousness! 

1765  Behold  I  now  thy  form  upon  the  marge 

Of  glamourous  Arno,  dreaming  in  the  gloam  ? 

77 


BRUNELLESCHI 

Or  is  it  she  whom  I  have  loved  and  served  — 
She  whom  I  have  espoused — whom  in  my  breast 
I  wear,  the  cresting  blossom  of  the  world, 

1 770  Time's  fragrant  childling,  Florence?    Be  it  thou 
Or  she  — thou,  sweetest  voice  of  deathlessness, 
Or  she,  whom  thy  sweet  voice  hath  deathless  made 
One  only  soul  I  witness,  evermore 
Inseparate.    Snatch  thou  me  up  to  thee, 

1775  Lift  thou  my  spirit  till't  be  one  with  thine 
And  thou  become  the  essence  of  my  soul 
As  of  our  city !    Nay,  I  am  but  one 
With  thee;  I  lipt  thy  measures  with  her  milk 
Who  bare  me,  and  my  self  is  saturate 

1780  With  thy  flood-spirit.    In  my  work  of  works  — 
Yonder  up-standing  quickened  thing  of  clay  — 
There  throbs  the  life-blood  of  thy  mightiness 
Somehow  thro'  me  anew  made  manifest, 
From  thee  derivative,  from  thee  who  sprang 

1785  From  the  essential  pregnance  Florence  is 

Of  power  and  sweetness.    Thine  and  hers  it  is, 
That  greatness  I  have  fathered,  now  in  night 
Still  gleaming  —  luminous,  of  all  the  vale, 
Alone.    From  out  the  shrouded  west  some  ray 

1790  Inscrutably  still  penetrates  the  dark 

And  touches  to  long-lingering  rose  the  Dome, 

78 


EVENING 

Informing,  as  a  lamp  its  glow,  that  globe 
With  warmth  and  lambency. 

Oh,  may  it  be 

1795  A  shining  for  the  age  to  come,  the  flame 
Of  a  vast-regioned  cresset,  beaconing 
The  minds  that  are  my  fellows  yet-to-be 
Up  darksome  trails  of  travail  to  the  height 
Where  shrines,  approachable,  the  Loveliness 

1 800  Eternal.    May  my  art  contribute  to, 

And  bring  down  nearer  to  men's  bungling  hands, 
The  art  of  the  divine  Artificer 
Wherein  are  all  things  as  the  light  of  day, 
Tho'  darkly  now  we  see  as  in  a  glass. 

1805  In  sudden  vision  I  behold  the  hour 

When  art  shall  speak  untrammeled  and  its  words 
Shall  arrow  straight  unto  their  goal,  nor  mist 
Of  indirection  but  obscure  the  sense 
That  lies  behind  their  music.    May  my  light, 

iSioTho'  be't  but  darkness,  kindle  on  and  on 
Into  the  night  and  usher  in  a  morn 
When  architecture  shall  be  one  with  truth, 
Truth  one  with  power,  and  power  with  constancy ! 

Yet  I  bethink  me  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
1815  That  truth  is  one  with  trial.    I  have  set 

79 


BRUNELLESCHI 

My  hand  unto  a  task  whereof  not  all 

I  might  fulfil  and  live,  for  so  not  man 

Were  I,  but  He  who  made  man  in  His  image  — 

Endowed  with  heavenward  power  to  look  above 

1820  But  ever  impotent  to  reach  the  height. 

For  the  allotted  three  score  years  and  ten  — 
Or  such  of  them  as  answered — I've  essayed 
To  climb  the  summit  of  the  centuries 
And  orb  their  life  in  skiey  stone!  And  now 

1825  From  off  my  height  unfinisht,  unattained, 
I  step  into  the  starry  ambience 
And  mystery  of  evening  skies.  .  .  . 

The  Dome! 
Behold !  While  we  are  musing,  from  the  east 

1830  Hath  swum  the  glamour  of  the  lesser  light 
And  rimed  its  lamp  with  silver.    I  will  take 
This  radiance  as  an  augury.    Farewell! 
Let  us  go  down,  Donato,  while  the  moon 
Plays  Dian  to  Endymion,  my  Dome, 

1835  Kissing  his  sleep  to  dreams  of  loveliness 
That  shall  fulfil  all  longing ! 

Gift,  thine  arm.  .  . 


80 


NOTES 

The  full  name  of  Brunelleschi  ( 1377-1446)  was  Filippo  di 
Ser  Brunellesco  Lapi.  Brunelleschi,  the  name  by  which  he  is 
generally  known,  was  the  family  name  of  his  paternal  grand 
mother. 

LINE  4 

Andrea  di  Lazzaro  de'  Cavalcanti  ( 1412-1462  ),  called,  from 
his  birthplace,  Buggiano.  He  was  a  sculptor,  a  pupil  of  Dona- 
tello,  and  a  close  friend  and  protege  of  Brunelleschi,  who 
adopted  him  as  a  son. 

LINE  24  'T  is  a  beauty  such,  methinks, 

As  none  but  he  who  made  can  utterly  , 
Delight  in ! 

This  is  a  reference  to  the  following  lines  of  Dante : 

La  bellezza  ch'  io  vidi,  si  trasmoda 

Non  pur  di  la  da  noi,  ma  certo  io  credo 
Che  solo  il  Suo  Fattor  tutta  la  goda. 

PARADISO:  Canto  XXX,  lines  19-21. 

Vasari  tells  us  that  Brunelleschi  was  a  profound  admirer  of 
Dante,  whose  lines  were  ever  on  his  lips.  Several  paraphrases 
are  mentioned  hereafter  in  these  notes ;  but  it  is  unnecessary, 
and  indeed  impossible,  to  identify  all  of  the  oblique  allusions 
with  which  the  text  is  sown.  Brunelleschi  gives  full  credit  in 
his  own  words  to  the  Florentine  for  the  debt  he,  and  all  men, 
owe  him.  (See  line  1762  et  seq.) 

83 


NOTES 

LINE  26 

Arnolfo  di  Cambio,  or  di  Lapo,  (1232-1301)  was  the  origi 
nal  architect  of  the  cathedral  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  which 
was  founded  in  1294.  Arnolfo's  father's  name  was  Lapo,  while 
Lapi  was  the  family  name  of  Brunelleschi,  whose  father  was 
Ser  Brunellesco  di  Lippo  Lapi.  This  suggests  a  possible  family 
relationship,  all  the  more  probable  as  Vasari  tells  us  that  the 
above  Ser  Brunellesco's  grandfather  'was  called  Cambio.  Lapi 
was,  however,  one  of  the  most  common  of  all  Florentine  names. 

LINE  55  There  hath  art 

Touched  the  high  term  of  beauty. 

Brunelleschi  has  in  mind  the  following  lines  of  Dante : 

Ma  or  convien  che  il  mio  seguir  desista 
Piu  dietro  a  sua  bellezza,  poetando, 
Come  all'  ultimo  suo  ciascuno  artista. 

PARADISO:   Canto  XXX,  lines  31-33. 
LINE  66 

Timid  that  profile  as  it  budded  first 

Arnolfo's  original  plan,  which  was  modified  after  his  death 
by  his  successors,  included  an  octagonal  dome  of  masonry,  but 
much  lower  in  profile  than  as  executed  later  by  Brunelleschi ; 
and,  furthermore,  without  the  high  drum  or  wall  which  lifts 
the  dome  proper  some  twenty-five  feet  above  the  top  of  the 
nave  walls.  The  initial  idea  of  the  dome,  therefore,  we  owe  to 
Arnolfo;  its  freedom,  majesty,  and  beauty,  as  well  as  the  skill 
of  its  execution,  to  Brunelleschi. 
LINE  70 

Those  close  maestri, 

The  general  conduct  of  the  construction  of  the  cathedral  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  maestri  (masters)  of  the  Opera  del  Duomo 
(Board  of  Works  of  the  Cathedral). 


NOTES 

LINE  162 

Unfinisht  yet  and  webbed  with  scantling  gold 

The  main  structure  of  the  dome  proper  had  been  completed 
and  the  cathedral  consecrated  in  1436,  ten  years  before  Bru- 
nelleschi  speaks  ;  the  lantern,  of  white  marble,  was  begun  seven 
years  later,  only  three  years  before  the  architect's  death,  in 
1446,  and  not  finished  till  1462,  under  Michelozzo. 

LINE  189 

'Tis  thou  I  would  have  make  my  monument; 

The  most  interesting  and  valuable  work  of  Andrea's  which 
has  come  down  to  us  is  the  circular  wall-tablet  in  relief,  to 
Brunelleschi's  memory —  admirable  in  execution,  and  most 
convincing  as  a  portrait  — which  is  placed  high  on  the  south 
wall  of  the  cathedral  just  inside  the  southwest  entrance. 

LINE  218 

Thou  know'st  my  model  for  Lorenzo's  doors ; 

Lorenzo  Ghiberti  (1378-1455),  the  sculptor.  The  baptistry 
doors  which  were  the  subject  of  the  competition  in  1401  are 
those  on  the  south  side,  corresponding  in  general  character 
with  the  north  doors  already  completed  in  1336  by  Andrea 
Pisano.  On  completion,  after  more  than  twenty  years  of  labor, 
Ghiberti's  doors  were  considered  so  fine  that  he  was  commis 
sioned  to  execute  the  east  doors  as  well ;  and  it  was  these, 
even  finer  than  the  south  doors,  which  Michelangelo  declared 
worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Paradise.  These  occupied  Ghiberti 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  were  his  most  important 
work. 

LINE  243 

Giotto  di  Bondone  (1276-1337),  like  Arnolfo  and  Brunel- 
leschi,  died  before  the  completion  of  his  great  architectural 

85 


NOTES 

work.  The  tower,  which  he  had  begun  in  1334,  was  completed 
in  1387.  Yet  "completed"  is  hardly  the  word  to  use,  for 
Giotto's  plan  contemplated  a  high  spire  above  the  present 
cornice,  which  has  never  been  executed,  though  the  prepara 
tions  for  it  are  to  be  seen  in  their  unfinished  state  under  the 
supposedly  temporary  roof  of  the  tower. 

LINE  325 

Our  two  —  Lorenzo's  and  my  own  —  stood  out 

These  two  models  in  bronze,  for  a  panel  illustrating  the 
Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  are  now  hung  side  by  side  in  the  Bargello. 
There  are  considerable  differences  in  merit  as  to  composition, 
which  are  in  Ghiberti's  favor;  but  the  most  striking  superi 
ority  of  his  bronze  is  in  its  spiritual  quality.  His  Abraham  is 
loth  to  strike,  while  Brunelleschi's  goes  vigorously  to  work, 
"hot  to  the  deed,  e'en  odious"  (see  line  338). 

LINE  365 

Donatello  (Donato  di  Niccolo  di  Betto  Bardi,  1386-1466), 
the  great  sculptor,  was  Brunelleschi's  stanchest  friend  till  death. 

LINE  368 

Masaccio  (Tommaso  di  Ser  Giovanni  Guidi  da  Castel  San 
Giovanni,  1401-1428),  who  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- 
seven,  had  already  worked  a  revolution  in  painting.  His  fres 
coes  in  the  Brancacci  chapel  in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Carmine  are  perhaps  the  finest  of  his  works  that  remain  to 
us.  These  and  others  were  the  models  from  which  Michel 
angelo  and  Raphael,  and  in  fact  most  of  the  later  painters  of 
the  Renaissance,  studied  and  formed  their  style. 

LINE  436 

In  desert  purlieus  of  the  shrunken  town 

At  the  end  of  the  middle  ages  Rome  had  shrunk  to  a  small 

86 


NOTES 

town.  For  three-quarters  of  a  century  before  Brunelleschi's 
time,  the  city  was  not  even  the  papal  capital,  the  popes  having 
established  their  court  at  Avignon,  whence  they  returned  to 
Rome  the  year  of  Brunelleschi's  birth,  1377.  The  city  then 
went  through  a  period  of  more  than  two  score  years  of  schism 
and  anarchy  hardly  less,  perhaps  more,  disastrous  than  abso 
lute  desertion.  The  latter  half  of  this  period  was  the  time  of 
Brunelleschi's  life  there. 

LINE  448  How  'twas  I  lived, 

Nothing  is  known,  save  in  the  most  general  way,  of  Brunel 
leschi's  life  in  Rome ;  but  in  visiting  the  city  it  is  a  most  inter 
esting  and  stimulating  experience  to  center  one's  mind,  for 
a  time,  on  what  still  exists  there  that  was  a  part  of  Brunelles 
chi's  own  knowledge.  It  is  astonishing  how  fully  and  clearly 
the  character  of  the  town,  as  he  must  have  known  it,  may  still 
be  made  to  emerge. 

LINE  469  Round  me  cattle  browsed 

The  Forum,  in  mediaeval  and  Renaissance  times,  was  quite 
outside  the  inhabited  part  of  the  town,  in  the  fields,  and  was 
known  as  "  the  cow-pasture  "  (campo  vaccino). 

LINE  476  giants,  half  their  height 

Awful  up-turreting, 

An  allusion  to  Dante's  lines : 
Pero  che,  come  in  su  la  cerchia  tonda 

Montereggion  di  torri  si  corona, 

Cosi  la  proda  che  il  pozzo  circonda, 
Torreggiavan  di  mezza  la  persona 

Gli  orribili  giganti,  cui  minaccia 

Giove  del  cielo  ancora,  quando  tuona. 

INFERNO:  Canto  XXXI,  lines  40-45. 

87 


NOTES 

LINE  505 

The  Amphitheater's  o'erwhelming  sweep 

The  Amphitheater  was  far  more  complete  in  Brunelleschi's 
time  than  now.  It  was  used  all  through  the  Renaissance  as  a 
quarry  whence  the  materials  were  obtained  for  building  the  pal 
aces  which  sprang  up  soon  after  the  return  of  the  papal  court. 

LINE  539  the  ends  of  earth 

Together  all  were  gathered  up  within 
One  fascicle  of  governance, 

See  Dante's  lines : 

Poi,  presso  al  tempo  che  tutto  il  ciel  voile 
Ridur  lo  mondo  a  suo  modo  sereno, 
Cesare,  per  voler  di  Roma,  il  tolle. 

PARADISO:  Canto  VI,  lines  55-57. 

LINE  546  pagan  priests 

Did  sanctify  that  temple  to  gods  seven 

The  Pantheon  was  dedicated  originally  to  Saturn,  Jupiter, 
Mercury,  Apollo,  Diana,  Venus  and  Mars. 

LINE  709  the  great  refusal 

See  Dante's  lines : 

Vidi  e  conobbi  1'ombra  di  colui 
Che  fece  per  viltate  il  gran  rifiuto. 

INFERNO:  Canto  HI,  lines  59-60. 
LINE  758 

Reversing  in  perspective,  vanisht  down 

Brunelleschi  did  much  to  perfect,  if  he  did  not  actually  in 
vent,  a  method  of  perspective  drawing,  which  until  his  time 
had  been  little  used.  In  particular  he  taught  his  method  to 
Masaccio,  who  profited  greatly  by  it. 

88 


NOTES 

LINE  949 

I  had  a  crew  of  masons  at  the  Dome 
Gathered  in  secret 

Vasari  says  these  masons  were  not  Florentines,  but  Lom 
bards. 

LlN*  978  The  basket  must  be  full, 

Donatello  had  the  amiable  habit  of  keeping  his  money  in 
an  open  basket  which  hung  in  his  workroom,  and  any  friend 
in  need  might  help  himself. 
LINE  994 

A  lily  whose  frail  petals  turn  aback 

The  lily  figured  on  the  coat  of  arms  of  Florence,  whence 
the  cathedral  took  its  name  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore  (of  the 
flower). 
LINE  1006 

The  lady  Gaddi's  topknot? 

This  lady  of  the  Gaddi  family  was  only  one  of  many  who 
made  Brunelleschi's  life  miserable  by  their  pertinacious  and 
conceited  advocacy  of  designs  by  themselves,  to  replace  the 
exquisite  conception  of  the  architect. 
LINE  1047 

My  tiny  cell  in  Santa  Croce's  garth 

The  Capella,  or  Chapel,  of  the  Pazzi  family,  erected  by  Bru- 
nelleschi  about  1430.    The  entrance  is  from  the  cloister. 
LINE  1 06 1 

Well-meaning  Frank 

Francesco  della  Luna,  one  of  Brunelleschi's  pupils  and 
assistants,  to  whom  several  of  his  designs  were  entrusted  for 
execution.  Among  these  was  the  Spedale  degli  Innocenti, 

89 


NOTES 

which  is  not  infrequently  called  the  first  work  of  Renaissance 
architecture,  having  been  begun  about  1419.  Francesco  had  it 
in  charge  after  1427,  and  made  certain  changes  in  the  design 
during  the  course  of  construction  which  enraged  Brunelleschi 
when  he  perceived  them,  though  friendly  relations  continued. 

LINE  1086 

The  church  of  Santo  Spirito,  usually  regarded  as  Brunelles- 
chi's  masterpiece,  was  begun  in  1436,  but  not  finished  until 
1482,  thirty-six  years  after  the  architect's  death,  the  work  hav 
ing  been  carried  on  under  the  direction  of  several  successive 
superintendents. 

LINE  1089 

The  church  of  San  Lorenzo,  the  reconstruction  of  which 
under  Brunelleschi  was  begun  in  1425,  still  lacked  its  dome 
at  Brunelleschi's  death. 

LINE  1098 

Rankles  that  smooth-faced  house  of  Cosimo, 

Cosimo  de'  Medici  ( 1389-1464)  had  a  model  prepared  for 
his  house  by  Brunelleschi,  but  rejected  it  on  account  of  its  size 
and  splendor,  preferring  the  more  modest  design  of  Miche- 
lozzo,  though  it  is  said  he  afterward  regretted  his  choice. 

LINE  1 103 

Michelozzo  ( Bartolommeo   di    Gherardo   di    Michelozzo 
Michelozzi,  1396-1472),  second  only  to  Brunelleschi  in  archi 
tecture  among  the  latter's  contemporaries.    Michelozzo  was 
associated  as  architect  with  Donatello  in  many  undertakings. 
LINE  1133 

Luca  Pitti  wished  to  surpass  his  powerful  rival,  Cosimo  de' 
Medici,  in  the  splendor  of  his  palace,  with  which  desire 
Brunelleschi  worked  in  full  sympathy.  Before  completing  his 

90 


NOTES 

0 

house,  however,  Pitti  lost  his  wealth  and  power ;  and  the  pal 
ace  eventually  became  the  property  and  official  residence  of 
the  Medici  family,  thus  justifying  our  architect's  intuitions. 

LlNE  "53  the  Torse, 

Compact  of  vigorous  antiquity, 
Digged  from  Colonna's  garden  t'other  day, 

The  fragment  of  antique  Greek  sculpture,  now  known  as 
the  Torso  of  the  Vatican,  was  unearthed  from  the  Colonna 
gardens  in  Rome  not  long  before  1440.  About  this  period 
Pope  Eugene  IV  (1431-1447)  requested  Cosimo  de'  Medici  to 
send  an  architect  to  him  at  Rome.  Cosimo  sent  Brunelleschi, 
saying  that  such  was  his  greatness  that "  he  would  undertake 
to  move  the  world."  The  Pope  was  astonished  at  Brunelles- 
chi's  insignificant  appearance.  "  So  you  can  move  the  world  ?  " 
"Verily,  an  you  but  furnish  me  a  fulcrum  for  my  lever!" 

LINE  1261 

Whose  wont  you  know  was  flabby  white,  like  worms 

The  most  convincing  portrait  of  Cosimo,  in  which  the  pale, 
unwholesome  look  is  emphasized,  is  part  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli's 
mural  paintings  in  the  private  chapel  of  the  Medici  ( now  the 
Riccardi)  Palace. 

LINE  1482  as  God  looks  down  upon  His  world, 

The  handiwork  He  loves  so  well  His  eye 
Parts  never  from  it  — 

The  reference  is  to  the  following  passage  from  Dante : 

E  li  comincia  a  vagheggiar  nell'  arte 
Di  quel  Maestro  che  dentro  a  se  1*  ama 
Tanto,  che  mai  da  lei  1'  occhio  non  parte. 

PARADISO:  Canto  X,  lines  10-12. 

91 


NOTES 

LINE  1488 

The  church  of  San  Miniato  al  Monte,  built  in  the  eleventh 
century,  is  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  the  Romanesque,  or, 
one  might  say,  early  Christian,  basilica  type  north  of  Rome. 

LINE  1498  when  Cosimo 

Gave  me  to  build  anew  the  rotting  fane 
Of  San  Lorenzo. 

Strictly  speaking,  it  was  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  Cosimo's 
father,  who  had  originally  set  Brunelleschi  to  work  at  San 
Lorenzo,  to  rebuild  the  sacristy.  On  the  death  of  Giovanni, 
however,  in  1429,  Cosimo  (in  conjunction  with  several  other 
donors)  continued  and  extended  the  employment  to  include 
the  entire  reconstruction  of  the  church.  Both  San  Lorenzo 
and  Santo  Spirito  are  strongly  reminiscent  of  the  basilica  type 
of  church. 

LINE  1525 

The  church  of  Santa  Sabina  was  built  about  425,  and  is,  of 
all  the  early  Christian  basilicas,  the  least  changed  from  its 
original  character.  Its  ancient  doors  still  retain  their  primitive 
carvings,  among  which  is  what  is  reputed  to  be  the  oldest 
extant  crucifixion. 

LINE  1537  «  Take  thou  a  bit  of  wood 

And  fashion  me  that  Agony ! " 

When  Donatello  was  a  boy  he  carved  a  crucifix  of  wood 
which  now  hangs  in  Santa  Croce.  Brunelleschi,  on  seeing  it, 
exclaimed  that  he  had  put  a  clown  on  the  cross.  Deeply  cha 
grined,  Donatello  cried,  "  Take  wood  and  carve  one  for  your 
self,  then  !  "  Brunelleschi  accepted  the  challenge,  and  presently 
asked  Donatello  in  to  see  his  crucifix,  having  meanwhile  kept 
his  work  a  secret.  Donatello  was  completely  overcome  with 

92 


NOTES 

the  beauty  of  his  friend's  achievement,  which  is  now  in  San 
Lorenzo. 

LINE  1685  I  am  he 

That  is  so  crusht  by  wrong  that  lust  bursts  out 
For  vengeance  on  the  wronger  — 

See  Dante's  lines : 

Ed  e  chi  per  ingiuria  par  ch'  adonti 
Si,  che  si  fa  della  vendetta  ghiotto; 
E  tal  convien  che  il  male  altrui  impronti. 

PURGATORIO  :  Canto  XVII,  lines  121-123. 
LINE  1690 

Sweet  wormwood, 
See  Dante's  words : 
A  ber  lo  dolce  assenzio  de'  martiri 

PURGATORIO:  Canto  XXIII,  line  86. 
LINE  1691 

To  balm  the  sore  that  healeth  last  of  all. 
See  Dante's  lines: 

E  questo  modo  credo  che  lor  basti 

Per  tutto  il  tempo  che  il  foco  gli  abbrucia : 
Con  tal  cura  convien,  con  cotai  pasti 

Che  la  piaga  dassezzo  si  ricucia. 

PURGATORIO:  Canto  XXV,  lines  136-139. 


93 


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